


A Curious Couplement

by idareu2bme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Awkward Stiles, Explosions, Genius Stiles, Historical AU, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Steampunk, Vigilantism, derek is a beautiful cinnamon roll, historical au but super inaccurate but thats just because STEAMPUNK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idareu2bme/pseuds/idareu2bme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a simple horseman from the mountains, Stiles is an enthusiastic university graduate ready to make a name for himself. In any other situation, they would have gone their entire lives never having met. It's probably a good thing then, that they both happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is like nothing I've written before. It has been quite the undertaking! Before you begin, I'd like to take a moment to explain to you my vision for this fic...
> 
> You see, steampunk is not a genre I am particularly well-acquainted with, but I've done SO MUCH research on the subject upon taking on this prompt and have come to a new appreciation for it. Now, I really wanted this story to be like those feel-good, somewhat-flawed historical fiction, Hollywood action movies (eg. RDJ's Sherlock Holmes --or even the Shang Hai Noon & Knights movies, but, like, with the steampunk elements ). Additionally, I wanted to combine modern speech patterns and mannerisms with classic Victorian stuff, like how they combined rock n roll with medieval in the movie A Knight's Tale. Whether or not I successfully did either of these things will greatly depend on your opinion, obviously, but I thought it best to point out this fic's eccentricities ahead of time so you'd be ready for them.
> 
> Now, more importantly, I'd like to thank Renata who did the lovely illustration that prompted this Fic. She also spent a lot of time engaged with me as I wrote the Fic, cheering me on and drawing additional illustrations as scenes caught her fancy. Thank you so much, girl! It has been a pleasure working with you!! You guys definitely should check out her tumblr to see all her lovely art: aredesification.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd also like to thank Bumpkin (bumpkin-is.tumblr.com/) for taking the time to beta read this fic for me and give suggestions when I got writer's block. Thanks so much!
> 
> Finally, I owe a HUGE thank you to Ashley who devoted hours upon hours of her limited free time to helping me with this Fic. She was there from day one helping me with brainstorming and the huge amount of research that went into this fic. She spent SO much time fact checking, researching, and using her mad googlefu skills for my benefit. She was there through all my writers blocks and freak outs and stupid rants. And, when I fiiiiinally finished writing this fic, she took the time to read through if with me and help me find all the weak points. This Fic would be absolute drivel without her tireless help. If while reading it, you feel this story has any merit at all, I promise that is all because of Ashley. You guys, it has been years since I've had a beta challenge me to write better the way she has. It has been equal parts frustrating and thrilling to have her work with me... it has finally made me excited to write fanfic again. Thank you so much Ashley! I luff you so much.

 

  


 

 

“Woo, Cvet,” Derek murmured as he approached the light brown mare.

 

She had sidestepped at his sudden appearance from over the crest of the steep hill, but quietened at his voice. Derek approached her at the shoulder and reached to pet the side of her face as she turned to regard him. The late-morning sun was glinting off her sides in bright hues of amber and copper.

 

She whickered lowly, allowing him to smooth his hand over the sun-warmed hair of her coat before lowering her head and continuing to graze on the grass, lush and vivid green in its springtime newness. Derek quietly petted his hand over her shoulder and untangled a small branch from her mane, simply enjoying the sun on his face, the fresh mountain air in his lungs, and the familiar sounds of his horses grazing calmly around him.

 

“Are you well, Cvet?” he asked softly as he continued to brush his hand over her smooth coat. “You look well, Mamma,” he continued after a short pause as if he had waited for an answer for her despite none forthcoming.

 

“Your coat shines with good health and your belly swells with your foal’s growth,” he said, not caring about the pride so evident in his voice. Cvet was his princess, or so his sisters would tease. He would glare sullenly when they good-naturedly griped that he loved his horses more than his own family. Obviously, it wasn’t true, but up here in the hills of earth and stone, with the mountain breeze at his back and the sun warming his face, calming scents of foliage and horse filling his nostrils, where the forests and pastures kept him hidden, Derek could be open. This was his home, this was his sanctuary.

 

He and his family had nothing in excess, knew nothing of what a life of lavish truly looked like. They went to sleep late at night with aching joints and woke early the next day with more work ahead of them, but they were happy. Derek loved his life, loved his home, loved his family –loved it all. There were hardships, there were fears and pains, but their home was filled with laughter and love. Besides spending time in the hills with his horses, his family’s late meal before bed was Derek’s favourite thing in the world. Everyone gathered around the open fire, firelight dancing off the familiar faces of those he loved, his belly pleasantly full of his mother’s and sisters’ cooking, laughter and teasing in the voices he’d known since he was a babe, the smell of campfire smoke and tobacco wafting through the crisp night air, and listening the oft-told legends and stories shared by older family members, stories that had grown so familiar over the years he could speak them word for word as if they were his own –these were his cherished memories.

 

The only thing Derek thought he could possibly love more were these quiet, stolen moments of solitude here on the hillsides with his band of horses.

 

Derek ran his hand down Cvet’s shoulder and across her side. He closed his eyes and stepped closer to her, leaning down to press his ear against her round barrel. He held his breath as he listened. Cvet’s heartbeat was regular and rhythmic, lazily beating its life-giving song. It was the second beat that Derek was truly listening for, though. That fast-paced tattoo, already so enthusiastic for life though the little body inside Cvet’s belly had yet to even experience the sun –that was what Derek craved to hear each time he came up the mountain to check his horses. Cvet, daughter of his father’s stallion, Proroc, was with her first foal and Derek lived in constant anticipation of the blessed day the foal would come forth into the world.

 

He listened longer to the rhythm of the unborn foal’s heart rate before straightening and smiling softly at the mare. Giving her side a few more strokes, Derek then turned to regard the rest of the band. They were all at ease; grazing peacefully, tails whipping back and forth at the flies strong enough to be bothersome even in the growing breeze. He walked amidst them, his presence mostly ignored at its familiarity, horses only pausing in their grazing to glance up at him or flick their ears in his direction as he approached each of them, speaking their name lowly and running a hand over their shoulder, side, or neck. He catalogued their appearances and movements, looking for anything unusual or problematic. Astru had branches of a wild rose bush tangled in his tail which Derek carefully dislodged and Pomdo, the oldest of the band, seemed to be walking more stiffly than the last time Derek had checked the horses, but it was to be expected at his age. Otherwise, the band was in excellent condition and good health.

 

It was then that he heard it; a voice on the wind. It was calling his name. Derek tilted his head to listen to the distant call, his unusually keen ears straining against the echoes of life on the mountain to pick out the voice.

 

It was his sister, Cora.

 

Derek turned and hurried to the edge of the hill where it dropped like a cliff (though the ridge was rounder and the side covered in grass). He rested a hand against the grey and bleached-white boulder and leaned out over the edge, peering down the steep incline across the thin treetops to the stream and village below. The breeze was a full-fledged wind here, and he closed his eyes to listen again.

 

“Derek,” called Cora over the breeze, again. “Come home, Derek.”

 

He didn’t answer. There was no need. He could tell something was wrong and there was no use wasting time responding when action was the required response. He hoped it wasn’t his uncle acting out again. He hated having to put his once-beloved uncle into place.

 

Another voice came up to him on the wind; his mother, his alpha.

 

Eyes glowing blue, teeth and nails elongating, brow growing, tips of his ears sharpening, Derek turned into something more feral than human and sprang down the side of the cliff. He ran across the rocky fields and dashed between trees, leaping and landing on all fours when necessary. He had to get home. Something was happening and... he _had_ to get home.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

“Watch yourself, lad,” called out a gruff voice and Stiles quickly stepped to the side as a large man stalked past him slightly stooped under the weight of the large gear balanced across his shoulders. Three other men followed, each carrying large sprockets of their own –though none were as large as the first.

 

Stiles watched them for a few beats while grinning excitedly. He was _finally_ on site after what had felt so long waiting for a chance to put his newly acquired knowledge and his long-poured over designs to the test. He shuffled his arms to get a better hold of the handful of rolled papers he had under his right arm, all the while careful not to lose his grip on handle of the overfull case in his left hand. Once sorted, he started forward again. The acrid smell of coal smoke, stagnant water, and human sweat filled his nose as he made his way through the crowded construction yard, but it was not an unwelcome smell – no, it was the smell of progress!

 

Stiles moved quickly, albeit somewhat awkwardly, dodging busy workers on his left and right and making sure not to drop his papers or lose his brand new bowler hat every time the breeze picked up. The small office on the corner of the yard nearest the river was his destination.

 

“Heave! Ho!” shouted a large group of men working together to move a heavy bundle of metal pipes catching Stiles’ attention for a moment. He paused to watch them struggle, a small grin working its way from the corner of his mouth to fill his whole face. They were pipes for the hydro centre of the dam that was being built. And that was it; _that_ was why he was there!

 

“Mister Harris, when you have a moment...” sounded a female voice through the cacophonous noise of men working. Stiles turned to see a beautiful, smartly dressed woman with fiery red hair piled atop her head walking at a hurried gait alongside a trim, well-dressed gentleman with beady eyes and a sour look on his face. “...changes to look over in your office before we move forward,” she continued.

 

Stiles started in their direction at a hurried pace.

 

“Miss Martin,” replied the gentleman with a note of exasperation, “the driveshaft is a perfectly via—“

 

“With all due respect, Mister Harris,” insisted the red-haired woman, cutting the gentleman off without hesitation. “My changes will greatly improve the passage...”

 

“Watch it!” exclaimed someone to Stiles’ left and he leapt sideways only to smack directly into a broad chest and nearly fall onto his backside in the mud. With some flailing, though, he managed to keep himself upright –even if only just.

 

“Excuse me, sirs,” he panted as he scrambled to keep hold of the papers under his arm.

 

The man he had run into had an angry look on his face as he took a step toward Stiles. _Shit_. He braced himself for yelling, or, possibly a punch, but someone grabbed his bicep and pulled him to the side and out of the sudden fray. Stiles let out a squeak of surprise, but went willingly. They stopped beside a large stack of sheet metal and a few spools of cable that stood at least twice as tall as Stiles. He frowned in confusion, looking up at the round-jawed, stern young man with a dark complexion.

 

“You don’t quite look like you belong, _sir_ ,” said the man in a voice roughened by years inhaling industrial smoke while giving Stiles the most judgemental once-over Stiles had ever been subjected to –and that was saying something, because Stiles had been on the receiving end of plenty a judgemental look in his life.

 

“Thanks... uh, I... yeah,” stammered Stiles in a pitchy voice before letting out a sheepish laugh. “I’m here to see Mister Adrian Harris for an apprenctiship. I have drawn up some schematics for his dam that will completely change industry as we know it! ”

 

The man raised an eyebrow.

 

“He already has an apprentice,” he said, simply.

 

“Yeah, well, I... er...” stammered Stiles feeling slow under the man’s scrutiny. Nervously, he touched a finger to his multilensed glasses, pushing them up his nose.

 

“I’ll take you to Mister Harris,” conceded the man with a roll of his eyes. “Come with me.”

 

He turned and strode back into the the hopefully-somewhat-organized chaos. Stiles struggled to follow after him, grabbing awkwardly at the handle of his bag and holding tight to the rolls of papers under his arm.

 

“I’m Przemyslaw Stilinski, by the way,” he managed to say when he caught up to the man.

 

“Vernon Boyd,” replied the man. “Just call me Boyd, though.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Boyd,” beamed Stiles before tripping over a cord and nearly face-planting were it not for Boyd grabbing his shoulder.

 

“If you mean to stay, you might want to work on that,” said Boyd before starting forward again.

 

Stiles followed him to the office on the far side of the yard where he had originally planned on heading before he had detoured. It was much easier to get through the bustling yard with Boyd leading the way. It was as though he were Moses parting the Red Sea for how everyone seemed to instinctively move to the side as he approached, not even pausing in what they were doing in order to do so.

 

Boyd rapped his knuckles against the door when they arrived and the mobile office. It opened only seconds later to reveal the red-haired woman from before, her eyes narrowed and her noticeably plush lips pulled down.

 

“Yes?” she asked curtly.

 

“Mister Harris expecting this lad, Ma’am?” asked Boyd before tilting his head in Stiles’ direction.

 

That had the woman’s sharp gaze directing itself onto Stiles and it took some effort for him not to flinch under it. He swallowed nervously, but managed to keep his shoulders straight under her scrutiny.

 

“I don’t believe so,” she finally said after what felt like eons, “but...”

 

Instead of finishing the sentence, she opened the door wider and stepped to the side. Her command was clear in the gesture. Stiles nodded and weakly smiled his thanks to Boyd before hurrying past him to clamber up the metal folding stairs and step inside.

 

The red-haired woman closed the door behind him and Stiles juggled the things in his arms so he could take off his hat. Ahead of him was a large mahogany desk that didn’t look like it could have possibly fit through the office door and behind the desk sat the trim, sour-faced gentleman he had seen with the red-haired woman before.

 

“Mister Harris,” spoke Lydia, “this young man is here to see you.”

 

The gentleman nodded, his lips quirking in a minute expression that Stiles wasn’t certain the meaning of. The woman stepped past Stiles to stand at the head of the room, just to the side of the large desk.

 

“I’m Przemyslaw Stilinski, sir, I believe my father wrote to you on my be—“

 

“Ah, yes, the boy called Stiles,” spoke the gentleman, not bothering to stand up from the desk though it was the gentlemanly thing to do when being introduced. Stiles tried not to feel annoyance. At least Mister Harris had even read the letter. “You have come for an apprenticeship, correct?”

 

“Yes, sir, I—”

 

“I already have an apprentice,” said Harris, cutting Stiles off while glancing fondly over at the red-haired woman. “Miss Lydia Martin is one of the brightest minds in all Europe.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” said the woman, not without a certain smugness.

 

“Like I wrote to your father,” said Harris, turning a sour expression onto Stiles, “I’m working on the biggest project of my career and don’t have the time for any sort of hand-holding.”

 

“I know, sir,” said Stiles before stepping forward and pulling a few rolls of paper out from under his arm to spread across the wide desk. Stiles’ painstakingly drafted designs were so resolutely curled that he took a moment to grab a few items from Harris’ desk to use as weights at the papers’ corners. “But, if you’ll hear me out, I have designed something that I believe will greatly—“

 

“I don’t have time for this, boy,” cut in Harris, standing abruptly. The rolls snapped shut at the movement, leaving Stiles standing gaping with Harris’ heavy, ceramic ashtray in hand. The rustle and snap of the papers rolling back shut caused everyone to pause for a millisecond, but Harris was the first to break the sudden quiet. He let out an annoyed huff of breath and said “I’m expecting...”

 

He trailed off when another rap came at the office door.

 

“That is most likely them,” he said, a small smile curling the corners of his frown in a strange upward motion that could possibly indicate delight, but mostly looked disconcerting. “Miss Martin, please see Stiles out, I have something to attend to.”

 

The red-haired woman nodded and then Harris was walking swiftly past Stiles and leaving through the small office door that, even with his extensive schooling, Stiles still couldn’t possibly decipher how a wide mahogany desk could fit through. When the door fell back shut behind Harris who had immediately began speaking with the person waiting on the other side, Stiles set down the ashtray and turned his attention back on the red-haired woman.

 

“Miss Martin, right?” asked Stiles.

 

“Yes,” she confirmed emotionlessly.

 

“Perhaps if _you_ have a moment, you could look over my designs before I go,” he asked feeling panic that any chance at working under Harris was quickly slipping away.

 

“I’m sure they’re _ingenious_ ,” she said, her tone saying she believed the quite opposite, “however, we are rather busy building the world’s largest dam, perhaps you could find someone not quite so... in demand as Mister Harris to look over your... sketches.”

 

“Sketches!” sputtered Stiles, eyes widening in disbelief and outrage as he glanced between the red-haired woman and the roll of detailed schematics the desk between them. “Do you even know h—“

 

“I know a great many things, Mister Stilinski,” she cut in. “For example, I know that if you don’t pack up your things and leave the premises immediately, I will have to call Mister Boyd back in here to do it for you.”

 

“But... you... I...” stammered Stiles, flailing.

 

The red-haired woman simply crossed her arms over her chest, shifted her weight to cock a hip, and lifted an eyebrow. Somehow, it was menacing. Stiles snapped his mouth shut and quickly gathered his things.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

“I told you he already had an apprentice,” said Boyd as he walked Stiles back to the yard’s front gate.

 

“I know, but I figured if he’d just look at my designs...” sighed out Stiles. “If he looked, he would see that my invention could make this dam so much more useful and then he’d have to take me, y’know?”

 

“Did he look?” asked Boyd, sharply.

 

Stiles groaned.

 

“No, not even a glance!”

 

“Fortunate for you,” said Boyd which had Stiles stopping abruptly to give Boyd a rather sharp look of surprise.

 

“What do you mean?” asked Stiles.

 

Boyd looked around shiftily before leaning closer to Stiles.

 

“He’s more likely to steal your design than hire you for it,” said Boyd, shaking his head. “You ought to get your designs copyrighted before showing them to _anyone_ if you haven’t already. This is a cutthroat industry and stealing ideas is much less expensive and troublesome than hiring young go-getters right out of university like yourself. I’ve seen it happen plenty. “

 

“I...” started Stiles feeling suddenly stricken, “I never thought of that.”

 

“There’s a courthouse three blocks west of here, right in the large city centre,” said Boyd, “I suggest you head straight there with those scribbles of yours.”

 

“Yes, of course,” said Stiles, nodding and straightening to go. For some reason, Boyd calling them scribbles was a lot less offensive than Miss Martin calling them sketches. “Thank you, Boyd,” he said with finality and tipped his hat.

 

“G’luck,” said Boyd, his face blank save for the small twitch on the corner of his mouth.

 

“Thanks!” exclaimed Stiles one last time before hurrying off.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

Derek glared furiously down at the manacles tightly holding his wrists together. It had been a long ride in the cramped carriage with an officer glaring across the small space at him. His shoulders and back had grown stiff from both the confines of the horse-pulled vehicle and the lack of movement afforded him with his wrists shackled. Now, the city bustled around him, horses pulling carriages and coaches alike trotted past. People were everywhere. _Noise_ was everywhere. Voices echoed off the stone buildings, movement surrounded him, and the air was heavy and barely breathable with its stench. Derek wanted to go home.

 

He had done nothing that should have had the gendarmerie looking for him, yet they had arrived at his home just that morning with their uniforms and guns and their stoic faces. They had spoken confusing words accusing him of things he didn’t understand before taking him away as his family called out in dismay. They had walked him down the rocky path away from his home, put him in a carriage that looked more like a fancy coffin, and driven him to the city. Derek’s mind was exhausted from trying to understand.

 

The carriage had finally stopped and the officer sitting on his left opened the door and stepped out. Derek was motioned to follow. With some effort, he managed to climb out of the vehicle without his hands. Now here he was in the midst of an overwhelming onslaught of movement, acrid smells, and noise –so much noise.

 

The officers directed him across the wide, circling cobblestone street to the grand looking building with flags flying across its front. Derek squinted up at the words carved into the stone above him as he passed through the first arch of the building, but they were in a language he did not understand. It was much quieter inside the building, but the walls, tall as they were, made him feel claustrophobic in their looming.

 

There were only a small number of people inside –at least who could be seen. The large desk that stood at the head of the open space seemed to cut off much of the other side of the building from both entrance and view. Derek tried to take everything in as he walked forward, following the officer ahead of him. He needed all the information available to be able to understand what was happening to him. He felt wild in this city, wilder than he ever did out in the mountains of his homeland. He felt like a caged animal; his muscles tense and his chest tight with an unvoiced growl at the ready.

 

A young man –more boy than man, but dressed like a ‘civilized’ gentleman was sitting on a bench with an overfull bag at his side and a pile of rolled paper on the seat beside him. The bench was near the large stone desk. The young man looked disgruntled and impatient as if he had been made to wait. Derek understood all about the frustration of waiting by that point.

 

The young man stilled –not that he had been doing much moving, but it was an obvious thing that he had frozen under Derek’s gaze. His bright eyes went wide behind his strange glasses and his mouth opened slightly. Yes, Derek was sure his own profile was a sight to anyone from this city. He definitely didn’t belong here. He glared at the young man as he walked past before turning his attention elsewhere in the large, ornate room.

 

“We have the Romani,” said the lead officer to a man standing behind the stone desk.

 

The man’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he looked at Derek from over the officer’s shoulder and understanding quickly filled his expression. Derek wished for some of that understanding.

 

“Ah, yes,” said the man behind the counter, “just a moment.”

 

The man disappeared further behind the desk. Derek huffed in frustration, but remained obedient as he was led to a bench much like the one the young man with the odd glasses was sitting on further down the wall.

 

So, it seemed Derek would have to wait even longer to understand what crime he had committed.

 

\----------------

 

“You want HOW many Gulden?” exclaimed a voice. Derek tensed at the outburst in the mostly quiet building. He had been drifting away in his thoughts to mountains and forests and the sounds of peaceful horses as he waited sitting in the large building. Frustrated and (if he was honest) frightened as he was to even be there, it had at least been nice to sit in the quiet for a time. This voice, though, cut through the air sharply and had Derek wishing his hands were free so he could rub at his temples. Derek glared across the room at the young man he had seen waiting earlier now standing at the front desk.

 

“That’s outrageous!” snapped the young man with the strange glasses and all the papers, before finally seeming to notice the silence in the rest of the room and lowering his voice to a quiet hiss. Unfortunately, Derek, with his keen ears, could still hear him just fine. “You really think I have that kind of income? That’s more than my own father would make in half a year –and, he’s _not_ a pauper, _excuse you_.”

 

“I’m sure he isn’t, sir,” said the man on the other side of the desk, looking more bored than dismayed by the young man’s upset. “In any case, this is the price of copyrighting a design such as yours.”

 

“How in the _great bowels of hell_ do you expect me to pay this?” hissed the young man, pushing the small white paper back across the counter as violently as one _could_ slide a piece of paper across a desk. “Do you at least have some sort of payment plan?”

 

“No, sir, it must be paid in full before it comes into effect,” replied the man behind the desk. “Perhaps you can keep it in a safe, secret place until such a time as you have saved up the money—“

 

“But my income will come _from_ this project,” argued the young man, his shoulders slumping in his dismay. Derek figured he was beat, that he would gather his many scrolls and leave. Instead, though, the man suddenly straightened, a newly-determined stance taking over his form.

 

“No, you know what? This is completely unfair. I _will_ have the money _once_ I’ve started this project. However, I can’t _use_ the plans for this project until they’ve been copyrighted,” he explained, his voice beginning to pick up in volume. He was clearly working himself up into a full-blown fit. “All this could work completely smoothly if _you_ didn’t want to charge me a king’s wages just for something as simple as a copyright!”

 

The guards near entrance of the building were slowly making their way to the desk. The man really needed to calm down before he got himself in shackles similar to Derek’s.

 

“This is why poverty is so rampant; this ugly cycle right here!” The young man was right back to exclaiming just as loudly as his original outburst had been. “You don’t care about innovation! Just lining your pockets! You’re a bunch of thieves is what you are. Thieves!”

 

“Sir,” spoke a low voice, but it had a quiet boom to it that cut through the young man’s tirade instantaneously.

 

The young man froze and then slowly turned to face the two guards. It was when he turned that Derek got a real look at his face and it struck him how attractive the young man was. His skin was pale with red high on his cheekbones –probably from all the raving he’d been doing. The shape of his face had a unique aesthetic that was both curious and attractive, even when it was partially hidden by the strange, goggle-like glasses he was wearing. Derek wished he could get a closer and longer look at the young man. But, upset as the young man was, it seemed he wasn’t foolish enough to continue his rant with two men in uniform standing on either side of him.

 

“Err,” he stammered, bowing slightly in a show of submission that was probably more instinctual than on purpose. “Yes?”

 

“We must ask you to leave the building,” said the second uniformed guard.

 

The young man glanced between the two, swallowed heavily in a motion that moved his entire head and neck, and finally nodded his ascent.

 

“Right, of course,” he said before shakily turning back to the desk.

 

He gathered his things together from where they’d been partly sprawled on the counter and swiftly left the building, footsteps echoing lightly through the large hall. His stride faltered as he passed Derek; though his head was slightly bowed, their gazes managed to meet momentarily. Derek swallowed heavily, unable to look away though he felt caught. The young man turned his eyes away, his pace quickening as he continued on. Derek watched him go, finding himself appreciating the young man’s long gait and lithe form despite his own circumstances.

 

Once the man had left the building, everything went quiet and still. Derek took a deep breath and slowly released it. The young man had been a reprieve from his own troubles, but now they were all back at the forefront of his mind. He was sitting in a large, cold building between two officers who were more uniform than person, his hands in iron shackles, and the fate of himself and possibly his family completely unknown.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles growled in frustration as the mobile office’s door slammed shut behind him. The growl came out sounding weaker than he would have liked, but he figured the intent was still there. He kneeled down and carefully pushed his rolled papers back into his bag, jostling them about until they could mostly all fit.

 

“Back already? That’s the fourth time you’ve been kicked out this week,” sounded a deep voice, recognizable in its growing familiarity.

 

“Laugh it up, Boyd,” grumbled Stiles, looking up to see Boyd standing over him. “One of these days they’ll cave and hear me out.”

 

Boyd’s expression remained impassive but his eyes sparkled with humour. Stiles stood and brushed his knees off. The majority of the workers had left or were leaving, their day of toil coming to an end. Boyd shook his head and placed a large, calloused hand heavily on Stiles’ shoulder.

 

“More likely to throw you in jail for trespassing,” he said and Stiles inwardly agreed with a slight shudder. “I’m starving,” said Boyd into the weight of the sudden silence between them, “let’s go eat.”

 

Stiles nodded, managing a small grin for Boyd’s benefit.

 

It had been four days since he had first been turned away by Mr. Harris and then turned away from the courthouse when he didn’t have the money to copyright his schematics. Not wanting to go back home with the stench of failure surrounding him, Stiles had stayed in the big city and spent much of his time hanging around the work yard trying to get Mr. Harris or Miss Martin’s attentions. Somehow, in that short period of time, he had managed to endear himself to the hardworking, stoic man who was Vernon Boyd.

 

“Is Miss Reyes working tonight?” asked Stiles, knowingly, as they walked down the busy street side by side, cyclists, pedestrians and carriages hurrying about on all sides.

 

“Wouldn’t know,” replied Boyd and Stiles laughed in disbelief.

 

“I’d wager every coin in my pocket that you have her work schedule memorized,” teased Stiles.

 

“Whether she serves tonight or not,” said Boyd, calmly, “my need for a meal after a long day at work does not change.”

 

“Pfft,” laughed Stiles, “whether she serves tonight or not... just admit it, Boyd, you wish to make her Mrs. Vernon Boyd! ...and, I believe she wishes it too.”

 

Much to Stiles’ delight, that last comment had Boyd faltering in stride. He opened his mouth to tease further when a sudden commotion behind the large city courthouse at the centre of the city circle caught his attention. A large group of horses wearing nothing but halters –strange to see in a city where a horse’s only place was under saddle or ahead a carriage—were being held by a number of handlers, prancing and balking and neighing in upset as if they were wild. There were at least two horses to a handler, and while there previously must have been an order to it, everything had just broken into chaos. A large grey horse tied to the back of a wagon seemed to be the culprit. It was pulling back on its lead, rearing up and then jumping forward. It caught its front hooves on the back of the wagon as a result, sending another chain reaction of panic in throughout the horses nearest it. Men were shouting for backup; most of them were gendarmerie officers in full uniform. It was, altogether, a rather odd situation to happen upon, especially at the back of the courthouse, in middle of the city centre.

 

And, in the midst of the equestrian ruckus, there was a somewhat familiar figure shouting words Stiles didn’t understand. His hands were cuffed behind his back instead of in front, he had a few less layers of clothing, and his hair and beard were a mess of tangles, but it was obviously the same man who had glared at Stiles in the courthouse four days prior. Even from across the street, Stiles could see the look of panic and anguish in the man’s face. It was the face of a man so completely devastated that it tore at Stiles’ chest in the most uncomfortable of ways.

 

The two gendarmerie who had been escorting the cuffed man finally managed to direct him to the large, dark carriage Stiles recognized as one of the much-feared Black Marias. Stiles remembered seeing the sinister looking carriages drive through his hometown as a child, remembered asking his father of their purpose, remembered the grim look on his father’s face when he explained the reasons behind the lock on the door at the back and the bars across the tiny windows on the sides. The Black Maria’s presence was explanation enough for the look on that man’s face; she was his ride to Siberia.

 

“Horse thief, most like,” said Boyd, startling Stiles and causing him to realize he had stopped to gawk at the scene.

 

Stiles swallowed a few times, but he had trouble finding his voice. “Horses look rather wild,” he finally managed. “Healthy, though.”

 

Boyd hummed in agreement. “Seems training them wasn’t his forte; just snagging them.”

 

He was probably right, but Stiles stood a few moments longer after Boyd continued forward. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the devastated man who had stopped on the step of the Black Maria to take one more sweeping look over the chaos of horses. He was broken and something told Stiles it was more about the loss of the horses than the hopeless trip that lay ahead of him. Did he even know where he was headed?

 

“Stiles, you coming?” called out Boyd. Stiles snapped out of it and hurried after Boyd through the busy street.

 

Stiles couldn’t manage to keep up his regular behavior at supper than night, his mind still stuck on the strange man and the chaotic scene. Boyd and Miss Reyes had both noticed and gave him concerned looks, but Stiles ignored them. He couldn’t get the look of devastation on the man’s face out of the forefront of his mind.

 

“He seemed too upset at the loss of the horses to be a mere horse thief,” Stiles finally said.

 

Though Boyd barely showed it, Stiles could tell the sudden words after his long silence had startled him. Boyd paused in his eating to give Stiles a thoughtful look.

 

“The horses would have undoubtedly been his entire livelihood, so it wouldn’t be farfetched for a man to be upset by their loss,” Boyd spoke lowly after a moment. “Plus, there is the fact of the Black Maria’s presence.”

 

“Yes, that would have anyone rather... upset, wouldn’t it?” replied Stiles, mordantly.

 

Boyd nodded and returned to dipping his chunk of bread in his stew.

 

“Still,” said Stiles a few thoughtful moments later. “He looked not just upset, but like he was losing everything he held dear.”

 

“Two words, Stiles,” replied Boyd dryly, looking across the table at Stiles with a rather deadpan expression, “Black. Maria.”

 

“Of course, of course,” said Stiles, nodding.

 

He picked up this spoon to scoop himself a bite of his stew, raised it partway to his mouth and then set it back down into his wooden bowl.

 

“But you know--” he started again, but stopped when Boyd levelled him with a rather severe look.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” said Stiles, “he just didn’t look guilty of anything, is all.”

 

“Those wild mountain folk have no concept of ownership or rules,” said Boyd into his stew. “Perhaps he didn’t believe himself guilty of anything. There’s been a great many mountain folk rounded up over the past month for various crimes, horse theft being a main one.”

 

Stiles’ brow wrinkled.

 

“But if they have no concept of ownership,” he said, “then why would they steal horses to sell? Would they not have very limited interest in or need of our coin?”

 

Boyd let out a deep sigh as if being in Stiles’ presence was a great trouble.

 

“Eat your stew before it grows cold, Stiles,” he said, lowly.

 

Stiles nodded and finally picked up his spoon and took a bite of his stew. It _was_ a little cold.

 

 

\----------------

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Psst,” sounded a voice, breaking Derek out of his dreams. He blinked a few times in the darkness and momentarily wondered why his lupine eyes wouldn’t readily adjust before remembering he was blindfolded.

 

“Psst,” came the sound again, “hey, hurry and wake up, would you?”

 

Derek grunted to let the voice know he was awake and had heard.

 

“Perfect, okay, Hi! Uh... so, I’m about to become a bonafide criminal,” said the voice in the darkness and Derek wondered if he actually had awoken or if this was some sort of dream. “With that in mind,” continued the voice, “I was hoping that I could first ask you a question and get an actual honest answer, yeah?”

 

The strange voice coming to him in the dark while he sat cuffed and blindfolded in the carriage that would take him away come morning caused a sense of the surreal to fall over Derek. Truly, he would not be able to dream up such a scenario on his own, though. Derek swallowed a few times in order to answer. His mouth was dry, his throat parched.

 

“Uh... y-yah?” he managed to reply after a few false starts.

 

A beat.

 

“Are you a horse thief?” asked the voice, simply, is if that wasn’t the one question that had ruined his entire life.

 

His chest tightened, emotion trying to claw its way out.

 

“No,” Derek hissed vehemently. The only horse thieves were the men in uniforms who had taken his band away from him. They had taken him back to his mountain home seemingly just so he would have to watch as they roughly rounded up all his beloved horses and chased them down the mountainside. There were other men there constructing a fence between his family’s homes and the base of the mountains. It was a clear divider to keep his family away from the mountains he had grown up wandering, the mountains his father’s father had grown up wandering.

 

“I believe you,” said the voice and, though Derek had no idea who this voice belonged to, it loosened something in his chest.

 

The strange voice said nothing more for a time. Instead, the only sounds were of quiet shuffling and clicking. Derek wanted to ask what was happening, but had the sudden feeling that silence was necessary to help the person’s concentration. A few moments more passed and then came the sweet, sweet click of the lock opening. Derek rose quickly on shaky legs.

 

The door squeaked loudly in the quiet as it opened causing both Derek and the nameless voice to freeze. Derek listened hard in the quiet, worried a guard had heard and would come for him. The only sounds, though, were the sounds of the mostly-sleeping city around them –sounds that, foreign as they were, had grown familiar in Derek’s short time imprisoned there. Moments later, the person crept up the metal steps of the prison cell on wheels, brushing against Derek’s arm as he moved past him in the tight space. He untied the blindfold where it was knotted behind his head.

 

When it fell away, Derek turned to look at his savior. He was surprised to recognize him as the strange, lithe man from the building on his first day in the ugly city. He was the man with the strange glasses who had done all the shouting. Derek wanted to ask why he was doing this, but recognized the need for haste.

 

“I have no key for these cuffs,” the young man said with regret, touching briefly at Derek’s wrists where they were still behind his back.

 

He flinched at the light touch, but Derek grunted his understanding. He would just have to ignore the pain in his shoulders and back for some time more.

 

“Let’s go before we are found out,” said the man, needlessly. Derek was already stepping gingerly down the steps. Strange though it was, he was thankful for the young man’s steadying hand on his back as he did so. His balance was inhibited with his arms behind his back and having sat in the small confines for so long.

 

When they were both on the ground, Derek was tempted to simply bolt. He did not know this young man, did not know his motives in freeing Derek, did not know his abilities (though he had managed to unlock the small prison cell Derek had been locked in). Derek knew he could simply run away, but he felt instinctually drawn to this young stranger. He watched him shut the carriage’s door and lock it again. When the young man turned around, he must have seen the question in Derek’s eyes, because he explained in a whisper; “it’ll take them longer to notice you’re not in there”.

 

Derek was instantly glad he had stayed with this clever fellow. Already, his instincts seemed well-founded.

 

“Come on,” whispered the young man, grabbing Derek by the elbow and starting to run across the lamplit street to a more shadowed alleyway.

 

They ran, Derek following the young man’s lead. After several blocks, he must have felt they were far enough because he ducked into a dark corner of the alley. The young man leaned back against the stone wall to catch his breath, Derek followed suit though he wasn’t winded. He went through the motions of it, not wanting to stir up any suspicion in the man who had saved him.

 

His keen eyes having adjusted easily to the dark, Derek took that moment to study his companion; he was partially bent over, hands braced on his knees, and breathing heavily. Were most regular folk so easily winded? But more importantly whyhad he saved Derek? What had he to gain? He most likely had much to lose should he be caught. Derek wasn’t knowledgeable of the city, but he could judge from the young man’s clothes that he was not poor, was not a criminal, and was definitely not a fellow Romani –as the Gendarmerie had called Derek. Surely he did not think Derek was wealthy and could pay him for his services. There must be something else. Derek wished he were clever like his youngest sister. Derek was certain she would have known this man’s game already; probably before even losing the blindfold back in the prison carriage. Hell, she probably would have figured out her own mode of escape before this young man had even shown up. His heart panged at thinking about Cora. Was his family safe?

 

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” whispered the man, his voice sounding overloud in the quiet night.

 

Derek looked over at him. He had straightened and was offering his hand in some sort of greeting. Raising an eyebrow, Derek looked down at the offered hand that he couldn’t shake.

 

“Stiles,” he repeated in disbelief.

 

“Pfft, I highly doubt _you’re_ one to judge the oddity of someone’s name,” hissed the man called Stiles. “What’s _your_ name, _Besnik_?”

 

“No,” said Derek, the corners of his mouth twitching in bemusement or annoyance --not even _he_ could tell in that moment. “My name, it is Derek.”

 

“Oh,” said Stiles, his voice wavering on the simple sound.

 

“My father is Besnik,” conceded Derek after a beat.

 

Stiles made a strange laughing sound before attempting to cover it with a cough.

 

“Seriously?” he asked.

 

Derek wasn’t sure how to respond. Everything about his current situation seemed rather serious.

 

They stared at each other in the dark. Derek could see the man perfectly even in the dark shadows; could see the way he fidgeted under Derek’s scrutiny. Derek wondered how much of him Stiles could see with his likely less acute eyes and his seemingly constant distraction.

 

“Well,” said Stiles, dropping his hand from where it had still been outstretched between them. “It is good to meet you, Derek. My name’s Stiles.”

 

“Stiles,” repeated Derek. Had the young man not _just_ offered this information?

 

Stiles made a sound of exasperation. Derek felt the corners of his mouth do that odd bemused/annoyed twitch thing again without his telling them to. Strange.

 

“Derek,” said Stiles as if needing to have the upper hand in some sort of name-repeating game. Derek cocked his head to the side silently daring Stiles to say something more. Stiles did. “Let’s get you out of here.”

 

Okay. A sound plan.

 

Derek nodded.

 

With that, Stiles straightened, rolling his shoulders and puffing his chest out ever so slightly. He did up the middle button of his jacket, cracked his neck, and took a dignified step forward out of the dark alley. He suddenly looked like every other soulless, faceless man Derek had seen in the city. It was a somewhat disquieting change.

 

“Running and slinking along in the shadows is sure to raise suspicions,” whispered Stiles when Derek slunk up beside him and they walked side-by-side down the street. “Now that we are further away, we should just blend in.”

 

“I can not... _blend in_ ,” hissed Derek in response, wiggling his shoulders to bring attention to the fact that his hands were _still cuffed behind his back_.

 

“You’re fine,” replied Stiles, flippantly. “Just stop walking like you don’t belong here.”

 

“But I do _not_ belong here,” argued Derek. He felt out of place in his traditional slacks and boots, with his shirt torn and his hat missing. Fortunately, the street was completely empty.

 

“I know, but we don’t want others to know that,” answered Stiles. “Should someone happen to look out their window as we walk past, or some drunk come staggering up the street, we must not draw any attention.”

 

Derek let out a huff. True, Stiles made a point, but Derek doubted there was any way they wouldn’t draw attention should someone spy them, him cuffed and them out in the middle of the night.

 

“We don’t have far to go, now,” Stiles offered a few moments later.

 

“Where are we going?” asked Derek.

 

“To a friend’s home,” answered Stiles.

 

It was not the answer Derek had expected. He didn’t want more people involved, was having a hard enough time just trusting this man called Stiles. Still, he was an escaped criminal lost in an unknown city with still very little understanding of what led him to his current circumstances. Were he a more clever man, perhaps he would not have to blindly trust Stiles. As it stood, though, Stiles seemed the best option.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

“You brought a fugitive to my house,” growled the dark-skinned man in reprimand even as he opened his door wider to let Stiles and Derek enter.

 

“I couldn’t bring him back to the Inn, Boyd,” answered Stiles in a hiss. “He’d be spotted for sure.”

 

“So you chose to involve me when I had _explicitly_ advised _against_ doing this,” said the man as he rubbed his hand over his face.

 

“Yes, but—“ started Stiles, pausing when the other man gave him a hard look. “C’mon, Boyd,” he started up, “he said he wasn’t a horse thief.” Stiles turned to Derek. “You’re not a horse thief, right.”

 

Derek shook his head.

 

“Of course he’s going to say that when you’re offering to spring him,” grumbled the man. Derek was assuming his name was Boyd. “And even if he isn’t, you’re risking your life for this stranger –and now mine too.”

 

“We’ll be out of your hair –err, _place,_ soon,” offered Stiles. “We just need to change Derek’s clothes so he fits in, maybe grab a bite to eat –you got anything?– and then we’ll just slip right out of the city with the morning commuters like nothing untoward is going down. I mean, c’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

 

“Seriously?” asked Boyd, raising a judgmental eyebrow.

 

Again, Derek was confused by that one-worded question. It was the second time he heard it used that night in a way that didn’t seem to make sense in the situation. Yes, this was serious. Perhaps Boyd was questioning whether Stiles thought it was serious. That line of questioning actually _did_ seem to have merit considering the offhand way Stiles had explained their escape plan.

 

“Seriously,” confirmed Stiles, nodding. The expression on his face _did_ seem serious.

 

Boyd let out a sigh.

 

“We’re going to need to do something about his—” said Boyd.

 

“Yeah, he needs a shave,” said Stiles, cutting Boyd off, “and a— oh, Derek! There’s not some sort of religious honour thing connected to your hair, right?”

 

“What?” asked Derek in confusion, though it came out a little harsher than perhaps it had need. He was feeling cornered with Stiles’ eyes on him.

 

“You know like Samson got his strength from his hair or like those Chinese folks with their fancy braids,” said Stiles.

 

“Chine—” attempted Derek.

 

“We could always just tie it back, right?” Stiles asked Boyd.

 

Boyd hummed thoughtfully, nodding slightly.

 

“You want my honest opinion?” asked Boyd just before Derek was about to ask _what_ they were planning on _tying back_. Stiles nodded in response to the question. “I think,” said Boyd, talking slowly as if he thought them both idiots, the whole having his hands shackled behind his back thing is more a giveaway than the long hair would ever be.”

 

Stiles slapped himself in the face. It was comically loud.

 

“Okay, first thing we have to do is find a blacksmith to pay—” started Stiles.

 

“Stiles,” said Derek, feeling panic clutch at his chest at the thought, “have you so much wealth? You could pay more than the gendarmerie might reward?”

 

“Good point, good point,” replied Stiles, nodding. “We don’t want to get anyone else involved.”

 

Derek breathed a silent sigh of relief.

 

“I know!” said Stiles, suddenly, turning to Boyd with a grin.

 

“Oh no, no... Stiles, no,” said Boyd, shaking his head.

 

Stiles simply grinned more broadly in an almost frightening manner.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“I can _not_ believe I’m doing this for you,” grumbled Boyd lowly as he pulled open the back gate of the fence.

 

Stiles grinned and patted his shoulder before stepping through, Derek in tow behind him.

 

“You’re a great friend, Boyd,” he said, grinning.

 

The grin probably looked a little manic on his face, but to be fair, he was _feeling_ a little manic. Honestly, Stiles was still having trouble believing he had actually freed and, was not only harbouring, but actively helping a criminal. So, yeah, there was definitely a bit of a frenzied flutter in his chest as Boyd helped them break into Mister Harris’ work yard.

 

Boyd shut the small gate and relocked it. Stiles glanced sideways at Derek who looked incredibly nervous, but was standing tall. His eyes looked alert, his newly-shaved jaw tensed. _Damn_ , but he was a fine specimen of a man under all that wild hair. And, boy had THAT had been an interesting experience earlier that morning. Derek had not been pleased, but had sulkily allowed Stiles to shave his face, his own hands useless where they were still shackled behind his back. No doubt, the muscles of his shoulders and back were in excruciating pain by that point.

 

It had been frighteningly intimate to shave another man’s face –especially one so mysterious and seemingly wild as Derek. Stiles had tried to touch Derek as little as possible at first, but had quickly realized it was not conducive to a good or safe shaving experience. He figured Derek would be madder at him if he cut him than if he had his fingers all over his face. So, he had carefully tested the waters, running fingertips gently down the side of Derek’s jaw. Derek had tensed at first, but let out a slow, soft breath and... most importantly... didn’t kill Stiles.

 

 

After that, Stiles had allowed himself to simply concentrate on shaving Derek. He might have been a little short of breath by the end, but overall it had been a success. The hair cutting had been a different thing altogether. A barber, Stiles was not. Boyd had stepped into the kitchen, taken one look at the “hair style” Stiles have given Derek and had burst out laughing. Stiles hadn’t been given the opportunity to enjoy the rarity of Vernon Boyd laughing a loud, as Derek had rushed to look in the mirror. The angry glower he gave Stiles after seeing his reflection had given Stiles’ hands a slight tremor – _slight;_ he wasn’t afraid of Derek! No, sir!

 

Boyd had fixed the haircut, giving Derek a short cropping. They had found Derek some clothes and had stuffed some socks in a glove and attached it to the sleeve of an overcoat. Without his arm through the sleeve and with Stile’s other arm hooked through his, it almost looked like Derek wasn’t actually handcuffed behind his back. Almost. Though it _did_ look like Derek had some sort of issue with his back. Either way, Derek was almost passable as normal.

 

“Let’s go,” murmured Boyd and they followed him to the large, metal warehouse near the riverside.

 

It was still very early in the day, the sky over the city was a light grey and still mostly devoid of any ornithopters and the many dirigibles that floated through it during the day. The majority of the grunt workers were just showing up to the yard. It was dark in the warehouse when Boyd opened the side door and ushered them in. There were rows and rows of welding work stations along the length of the building, while the majority of the floor was covered in neatly arranged machines and large metal parts. There were no other people present.

 

“This is perfect,” hissed Stiles in excitement. “C’mon, Derek!” he urged, pulling Derek by the elbow he was still holding as he quickly crossed the warehouse to the first welding station.

 

“Can you work... this?” asked Derek uncertainly, eyeing the tools laid out on the work bench warily.

 

“Absolutely,” said Stiles, “this is what I do!”

 

Derek looked skeptical. Stiles tried not to be offended. Perhaps now was not the time to admit he had never contemplated exactly how he would use any of the super-heated tools on metal that was also pressed against skin.

 

“Perhaps there is a rag somewhere,” thought Stiles out loud.

 

“Rag,” scoffed Boyd rudely, stepping up next to Stiles to look over his shoulder at the tools laid out on the workbench. “I know what you’re planning and if you think a _rag_ is going to keep his wrists safe from _2500°F_ , you’re a bigger moron than I thought.”

 

“I wasn’t going to use the _blowtorch_ ,” grumbled Stiles, though his face heated in slight mortification. He grabbed up the thin-tipped hand tool off to the side. It was something that probably wasn’t used that much given it was for more delicate work and much of the current assembly looked to still be in the more rough stages. “This, on the other hand, might do the trick.”

 

“That is _not_ what that is for,” said Boyd in deadpan.

 

“I’m sorry, are you a professional welder?” asked Stiles, narrowing his eyes at Boyd.

 

“Are you?” shot back Boyd.

 

“I... no, but I _did_ just graduate from university with a Masters in Engineering,” pointed out Stiles and there was absolutely no hint of pouting in his voice when he added, “and it’s 1370 _Celsius_ , you plebeian.”

 

Boyd shrugged, not replying.

 

“That’s what I thought,” said Stiles, smugly. He flipped one of the extra lenses of his glasses down before picking up the hand tool and turning to Derek. “This is a catalytic soldering torch,” he explained, shooting a look at Boyd while saying it. “I’m going to try to use it to free you from your cuffs. It gets very hot, though, so you must not move while I work.”

 

Derek did not look the least bit eager, but he let out a harsh breath through his noise, his eyebrows doing their weird wildman thing that Stiles was noticing they seemed to do an awful lot, and shrugged off the overcoat. He turned around and Stiles directed him to back up to the large clamps and anvil to the side of the workbench. He hummed thoughtfully as he sized up the situation, trying to figure out exactly how he was going to accomplish this.

 

“Here,” said Boyd, causing Stiles to look up. Boyd had pulled the socks out of the glove that had been pinned to the bottom of right arm of the overcoat and was handing them to him. “Try these _rags_.”

 

“Excellent,” said Stiles, setting the thin-tipped torch back down so he could work the rags between the metal of the shackles and the warm skin of Derek’s wrists.

 

“Will the fabric not catch fire?” asked Derek after a moment, his voice stilling both Boyd and Stiles.

 

“Oh,” said Stiles after a moment.

 

He quickly pulled the socks back out from under the cuffs. Derek looked even less eager, now. Stiles found he couldn’t blame him.

 

“We are wasting time,” said Boyd, looking at the far door with clear nervousness. “Forget the cuffs and just sever the chain between them.”

 

“Genius!” exclaimed Stiles, shooting a grin at Boyd.

 

He turned back to Derek’s wrists.

 

“Okay, well, that means these can go back, they’ll hopefully help with some of the conducted heat,” he said, putting the socks back in between Derek’s wrists and the metal of the cuffs. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard an annoyed growl. It definitely sounded more animal than human. He laughed weakly. “Yeah, sorry, don’t worry; we will get this done without gravely mutilating you.”

 

“I will heal,” said Derek, lowly, “just hurry.”

 

“Erm,” said Stiles because obviously Derek had no concept of exactly what he meant by ‘mutilate’. The amount of heat needed to melt through the iron of the shackles was kind of really a lot, but... okay, whatever, Stiles needed to focus. He pulled off his multilensed glasses, their band pulling at his hair and sending it awry, and replaced them with the welding mask he found sitting on the work counter. Then, Stiles picked up the thin-tipped torch usually reserved for soldering in one hand, and pressed the palm of his other over Derek’s awkwardly angled wrists to hold him still.

 

“Okay, just breathe,” he said under his breath.

 

“I will be fine,” grumbled Derek.

 

“I meant me, but that’s good to know,” quipped Stiles before refocusing on the task at hand.

 

He clicked the torch on and the electrical machine it was hooked to came to life. It was overloud in the empty warehouse. Stiles poked his tongue out of his mouth in concentration as he slowly moved forward with the torch.

 

“I am definitely not watching this,” he heard Boyd murmur before the soft sound of his footsteps carried him away. Stiles paid him no mind, instead working on creating a thin line down the middle link of the chain between Derek’s wrists. Bright light shone where he touched the tip to the metal. It was a slow process with such a hot instrument so close to such vulnerable skin, but after many times going back and forth over the same line, Stiles managed to weaken the link considerably.

 

“I believe you’ll be able to pull them apart, now,” said Stiles, pulling back from where he had been stooped over Derek’s hands.

 

He turned off the tool and watched as Derek stiffly moved his arms apart. The chain gave instantly –much more easily than Stiles had expected. Obviously, Derek was deceptively strong. ‘Deceptively’ seemed a strange word in that moment considering how Derek’s worn shirt, exposed now that the borrowed overcoat had been removed, clung to his chest making his muscle mass rather obvious. Being in close proximity to such a physique, especially after Derek’s little feat of strength, had Stiles’ heart beating so loud in his chest he wouldn’t have been surprised if Derek had heard it.

 

“Success,” exclaimed Stiles, albeit breathily.

 

Derek pulled the socks out from under his cuffs and Stiles could see the flesh was blistered and an angry red, probably both from the heat and from days of the metal rubbing against his skin. It turned Stiles’ stomach a little, but he swallowed heavily and looked away.

 

“Thank you, Stiles,” said Derek sincerely, his eyes intense. Stiles had to swallow heavily, again, this time for another reason –one he would save to look at more closely later; or maybe not at all – ‘not at all’ seemed good, actually.

 

“Alright, we’ve spent enough time in here, let’s go,” said Boyd, from where he had been discreetly looking out the frosted window facing the rest of the work yard.

 

“Yeah, absolutely,” said Stiles, nodding gravely, “but first...”

 

“Stiles,” snapped Boyd looking both severe and wary.

 

“I’m pretty sure that room over there has all the plans for the dam,” said Stiles gesturing to the office on the other end of the warehouse. He eyed it longingly for a moment before turning pleading eyes onto Boyd. If he could _just_ get in there and see the plans, he would be able to get Miss Martin’s or Mr Harris’ attentions when he explained, using specifics, how they could better their design.

 

“C’mon Boyd,” whined Stiles. “We’re already here. If I could just...”

 

“Hurry,” said Boyd around a frustrated sigh.

 

Stiles grinned at Boyd, gave Derek an excited ‘thumbs up’, and then raced to the office. The door was locked.

 

“Uh, Boyd?” called out Stiles in a strangled voice.

 

“I’m coming,” said Boyd. Stiles looked over his shoulder and saw he was already halfway across the warehouse. Derek followed at his back, looking both slightly confused and intensely unhappy.

 

Stiles paced on the spot as he waited for Boyd to find the right key on the key ring he had swiped from the mobile office.

 

“Calm down,” grumbled Boyd, lowly, “don’t get your gas-pipes in a bunch.”

 

“This is my whole career at stake,” Stiles shot back, but he made himself still in acquiescence of Boyd’s grumbles.

 

“Yes, of course,” said Boyd as he fit the correct key into the lock. “Unlike me, who has put nothing in jeopardy by helping you today.”

 

“Er,” answered Stiles.

 

Boyd gave Stiles a derisive look but pushed the door open for him. Stiles awkwardly patted him on the shoulder before brushing by him. The office had three long and wide tables against three of the walls with a large shelf against the fourth. Each table was covered in rolls of papers, some open and some completely rolled, but all covered in schematics. Stiles made a high-pitched happy sound and practically bounced about the room.

 

“Hurry,” reiterated Boyd.

 

Yes, of course, Stiles must be quick. It was hard not to just pore over each and every paper on the tables, though. This was where he belonged. This was where his many years of university should have landed him.

 

Stiles scanned over the pages and was quick to work out the method to what may have seemed like madness to those with untrained eyes. The pages on the right were immediate plans for the bulk of the dam, the ones in the center were the more technical schematics for the promised hydro-energy creation for the many factories (the very thing Stiles’ plans could have helped with much more effectively), and the ones on the left were... wait, _what_!?

 

Stiles flipped through a few pages in confusion. He came to a dead halt when he flipped to the paper with schematics for an altered and overlarge Voltaic Pile.

 

“What,” was all he managed to say and it was definitely lacking his usual inflection. Spurred with incredulity, he began frantically grabbing at the other papers beneath and around that one and scanning over them in a whirlwind of rising panic.

 

No, Mr. Harris had _not_ stolen his ideas, uncopyrighted as they were. Harris had already _had_ similar ideas. He had ignored Stiles’ many attempts at getting him to look at his plans because he was _already_ putting similar ones into action! As Stiles looked over the pages of schematics, his chest grew ever tighter. But, if Harris had this earth-shattering information, these plans that could turn the tide of industry everywhere, why hadn’t he spoken of them when he gave his speech to the town on the day the dam was publicly announced? Why was he advertising the waterwheel, hydro-power for local factories when he had... _this_? It didn’t make any sense.

 

“This makes no sense,” Stiles said out loud a few moments after thinking it. He grabbed at a few more papers and froze again when his eyes fell on the plans that featured large transformers on a mountainside.

 

“This. Makes. No. Sense.” He hissed between his teeth

 

He scanned over everything he had gathered one more time when it finally clicked into place that Harris was purposefully keeping it secret. But to what end? Stiles looked sharply up at Boyd.

 

“Did you know?” he asked.

 

“What?” asked Boyd.

 

“Did you know he was planning on using the dam to create storable electricity?” asked Stiles, seething.

 

“What?” asked Boyd, again, this time looking shocked.

 

“He—” started Stiles, but Derek raised a hand and cut him off.

 

“People are coming,” he said, simply.

 

“What?” asked Stiles, feeling a sudden, overwhelming onslaught of emotional whiplash.

 

Boyd was instantly in motion.

 

“We have to go,” he said, ushering Stiles and Derek out of the office.

 

There was another door at the front of the warehouse, only a few paces away from the office where they were. It was then that Stiles heard the sounds of voices at the back door they had come through. Boyd hurried them to the front door. Derek stopped short causing Stiles to run into his back.

 

“I cannot leave from that door,” spoke Derek, roughly.

 

“What?” hissed Stiles.

 

“It is bad luck,” said Derek.

 

“What!” asked Stiles again.

 

“I canno—“ started Derek, looking suddenly very panicked.

 

Stiles closed his eyes and took a quick, cleansing breath.

 

“Okay, Derek? Bad luck is being caught in here where we aren’t allowed with an escaped fugitive in tow by a bunch of trades workers with big muscles and a lot of testosterone. So, let’s goooo.”

 

Boyd pushed open the door and waited. Stiles stared hard at Derek until he reluctantly went forward. He said some sort of prayer under his breath in a different language as he passed through. Stiles huffed and shook his head at the Romani’s eccentricity.

 

\----------------------

 

Once Boyd had let them back out through the small gate, Derek followed Stiles as he picked his way down the rocky cliff leading to the wide river Danube. Stiles was careless in his attempt at speed, falling over his gangly legs numerous times. Amazingly, he was always able to catch himself in strange ways. That was until he nearly fell right into the river when they reached the bottom of the rocky cliff. Derek quickly grabbed him by his collar and heaved him back up onto the large rock.

 

“Thanks,” gasped Stiles looking twitchy and awkward. Stiles’ fingers were clenched in the material of the overcoat Derek was wearing and Derek stared down at them for a few moments until Stiles let go and took a faltering step back.

 

“Be careful,” commanded Derek. He watched with mild curiosity as Stiles nodded in a way that should have had his eyeballs bouncing in his head. This Stiles fellow was a strange person.

 

“Yeah,” agreed Stiles, smiling sheepishly while readjusting the strange glasses on his face. He was agreeing to be careful, but for a second Derek thought he was agreeing that he was a strange person. It made Derek’s mouth twitch.

 

“Do you think they saw us?” Stiles asked after a moment.

 

They were standing on the large rocks and chunks of hard dirt that had undoubtedly been churned up from the earth to build up the work yard that stood just above them. They were not far, but they were definitely out of sight should anyone be looking for them. No sounds of distress were coming from the work yard, though. Derek closed his eyes and listened carefully. All he heard were what he assumed were regular sounds of a workday at the yard commencing.

 

“I think... no,” said Derek, opening his eyes to find Stiles looking at him with a contemplative look on his face. Derek grimaced realizing he was giving himself away. “What is your plan?” asked Derek, hoping to direct Stiles’ attention off him.

 

“Ah,” said Stiles, coming to life, yet again, “well, the most pressing matter is to get you out of the city.”

 

Derek nodded. He wanted to return home to his family and forget this entire ordeal. He paused when it dawned on him, though; he could not return home.

 

“I cannot return home,” he voiced. The words clenching his chest as he spoke them.

 

“Yeah,” said Stiles as though he already knew –maybe he had. “You’re going to need to hide out for a while before considering going home. No doubt they’ve already discovered you’re missing and will be looking for you. When you don’t turn up right away, they’ll definitely go question your family, maybe monitor your land.”

 

Derek’s stomach churned.

 

“My family,” he said roughly.

 

“It’ll be okay,” said Stiles, smiling in a way that did not look real at all. Derek didn’t know if he could believe such a promise. Would harm come to his family because of his escape? He would not be able to live with himself if he were to cause them pain.

 

“For now,” said Stiles, “we have to concentrate on getting out of the city undetected.”

 

Derek took a deep breath and nodded. Stiles was looking around, his face a mask of thought. Derek wondered, not for the first time, at the cleverness that the young man possessed. He was a strange sort and so easily underestimated. And he either had a big heart and selfless soul, or there were Stiles had secret motives behind his actions. Was unprompted rescue of Derek just a trick to gain Derek’s trust, had it been planned out from the start? The more time he spent with Stiles, though, the less Derek believed that possibility to be... possible. Though he might be clever enough to plot such a thing, Stiles seemed too genuine to ever do so.

 

“If we just had a boat,” said Stiles, breaking through Derek’s thoughts. “The forest on the opposite side of the river would be ideal cover. We’d already be out of the city and we could head for the mountains, immediately.”

 

“The mountains,” repeated Derek.

 

“Yeah, that’s part two of the plan,” said Stiles, grinning up at Derek from where he was standing lower on the large rock. “We need to head to the mountains and find where Harris is planning the second part of his dam. It can’t be very far from here if this dam is his cover for _that_ dam.” Stiles trailed off, instead muttering the rest of his thought to himself, but Derek could hear him just fine; “unless it is _very_ far so no one would accidently stumble across it. If it’s even a dam at all. But it’s something...” Stiles glanced back at Derek, frustration at not understanding written clearly across his face. “Something is going on, Derek!” he exclaimed

 

“Why must we find this second dam?” asked Derek, his head was feeling sore from trying to keep up with Stiles’ words.

 

“Because I’m certain it’s illegal,” said Stiles. “Illegal and unethical and... well... if I’m going to lose my chance at working with Harris because of it, then I’m going to—“

 

“Ah,” said Derek finally understanding. Of course there would be a catch. No one would simply save a stranger for no reason. Perhaps Stiles wasn’t purposely plotting against Derek, but he definitely had other motives to his actions.

 

“What?” asked Stiles, looking confused.

 

“This is reason you save me,” said Derek.

 

“What?” asked Stiles, again, this time his face wore an expression as though he thought he should be offended but wasn’t yet sure why.

 

“You need help with this plan, so you save me and I am in your debt,” explained Derek.

 

“No! I didn’t even know about this until...” Stiles paused to look at the tiny clock he pulled from his pocket “...thirty-four minutes ago. I saved you because...” Stiles trailed off. Obviously, clever as he was, he could not quickly think of a good lie. Derek took a deep breath and let it out his nose.

 

“It is okay,” he said. “I will help you in exchange, it is a fair trade.”

 

“I didn’t...” started Stiles, but he just let out a sigh and nodded. “Thank you, Derek.”

 

Relieved to finally understand the situation, Derek nodded. He would accompany Stiles to the mountain dam Stiles spoke of and help him get what he needed there. It truly was a fair trade and Derek would have agreed to it had Stiles just been honest from the beginning.

 

“We can follow the shore for some time, yet,” said Derek, his eyes scanning ahead of them. It would be slow and perilous to pick their way across the large rocks and churned up earth, but once they were past the work yard and other factories along the river, it seemed only a short way to walk among various homes before they would leave the city behind them.

 

He dropped his hand from where he had been shielding the sun from his eyes so they could better focus on the distance and turned to find Stiles looking at him with that calculating look on his face again. Was he giving himself away, again?

 

“You must have very good eyes,” said Stiles.

 

“Yah,” agreed Derek, quickly looking away from Stiles. “We must hurry, now. It is late in the morning.”

 

“Okay, let’s go,” said Stiles, immediately moving ahead.

 

He jumped to the next large rock, landing gracelessly and then sliding down it to find some even ground. Derek followed after him, keeping close should he need to catch the gangly man again. There were few boats on the river near them and still the sky was mostly clear of the strange flying contraptions that seemed to constantly buzz over the city. The shore opposite was mostly forest as they were near the edge of the city. Altogether, there were few opportunities for them to be spotted. Most likely, though, they would make a suspicious view should someone find them running and leaping from rock to rock at the foot of the smoky work buildings of the city. Derek hoped they would remain unseen.

 

Soon, and with only a few times where Derek had to grab Stiles before he fell, they made it to even ground where rickety, old, wooden and stone houses lined the cobblestone street that followed the river’s edge. It seemed to be an area where the poor lived, as most of the people he saw moving about were dressed in worn clothing and their homes all seemed in need of repair.

 

“I doubt anyone will report us here,” said Stiles, sounding out of breath. “We can catch our breath.”

 

Again, Derek realized he was doing a terrible job at concealing his strange abilities. He made sure to let out a heavy breath as if he too were tired from travelling over the rocks and uneven ground. They walked at a leisurely pace for a time until Stiles seemed to have caught his breath. Derek could hear that his heart rate had returned to a much more regular pace. Then they sped up their walk along the side of the cobblestone street. Not fast enough to capture attention, but faster so they could cover more ground.

 

The sun was growing warm and Derek was beginning to worry they would not leave the city in time. Surely, the gendarmerie were everywhere by then, looking for Derek. He increased the length of his stride and Stiles had to jog to keep up. Derek strained his ears and eyes, keeping alert, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, even if he were not accustomed to what ordinary in that area was.

 

“There’s a bakery over there,” said Stiles between puffs of breath, grabbing Derek’s arm to still him. “We should get some food to take with us. Who knows how long we’ll be before we have another chance. Plus, I doubt they’ve been feeding you much while you were captive.”

 

As much as Derek wanted to be as far away from the city as quickly as possible, Stiles had a good point. He slowed and let Stiles direct him across the street which was growing busier by the minute. The door of the bakery was propped wide and, though Derek had been single-minded before, now the heavy scent of freshly baked breads was intoxicating. It almost drowned out the wretched smells of the city, and Derek was happy for it, though it made his stomach churn with newly realized hunger.

 

“We will take two loaves of that dark bread,” said Stiles to the woman at the counter once they had entered the store. “Also, one loaf of that seedy bread,” said Stiles before pausing to glance at Derek. “Actually, make that two loaves of that as well. Aaaand, two of those date cakes because they look amazing. Do you have any bags I could purchase to carry these? We came unprepared.”

 

The woman behind the counter eyed them critically. Their order must have been strange and Derek was certain that, even with him shorn and clothed in city-clothes, they looked out of ordinary, especially for the area. Still, the woman behind the counter was probably more interested in making the sale than figuring out what they were up to. She found a bag made from a grey fabric for Stiles and filled it with his purchases while Stiles dug the coin out of his pocket.

 

They left hastily once the exchange was made, Stiles grabbing Derek’s elbow as they stepped back onto the cobblestone street.

 

“She was suspicious,” hissed Stiles at Derek. “No doubt, if the gendarmerie come this way looking for you, she will tell them about us and what we looked like. We must hurry.”

 

Derek nodded. They walked at a fast pace, Stiles leaning against Derek and smiling at random people as though they were completely careful. Derek wasn’t sure of the reason, but allowed Stiles to continue. Having Stiles so close seemed the only thing keeping him from panicking. When stressed, he would go to the peace of the mountains to clear his mind. If that were not an option, the touch of close family members could help to calm him. He had neither of those at the moment, but Stiles was feeling more and more like someone to trust.

 

Finally, the city fell away into field and forest and they made for the forest line almost immediately. Once they were in far enough into the forest that they could barely hear the sounds of the city behind them and were in an area that was thick with undergrowth, Derek stopped and simply breathed. The scent of the woods and the peace of the quiet was such a relief that it almost made his knees weak.

 

“You really hated being in the city, didn’t you,” said Stiles, not truly as a question. “It wasn’t even just because you had been arrested either.”

 

Derek shook his head in agreement.

 

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “I doubt the city would be a fun place to visit when you have such a heightened sense of hearing and... probably smell, too.”

 

Derek froze.

 

He opened his eyes and looked at Stiles. The young man was peering at him with a cocked eyebrow and a strange twist to his lips.

 

“What are you, Derek?” asked Stiles. “You’re more than just a mountain man.”

 

“I...” started Derek, but he didn’t know what to say. His heart beat quickly and ice froze his chest. He was not to tell anyone outside of his family what he was. Ever since he was a very small child, he was told this.

 

“Is that why they arrested you?” Stiles asked.

 

“No... I...” started Derek. “It was said that I stole horses. I did not. But...” was that why they had taken him? No, it couldn’t be. They couldn’t have known about him. “I do not... they do not know this about me.”

 

Stiles stared at him for a few beats and Derek forced himself to stand still under the scrutiny. It was strange how someone so frail and who seemed so awkward in his own body could make Derek feel so nervous under his calculating gaze.

 

“Okay,” said Stiles, finally. And just like that, Stiles dropped the issue. Stiles turned and sat down on a fallen log, taking the bag off his shoulder and taking two pastries out of it. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

 

Derek let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and gingerly moved to sit on the log by Stiles’ side. Stiles passed him a pastry and they ate.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 


	4. Chapter 4

“If I’m interpreting what I saw back at the office correctly,” said Stiles, running ahead of Derek to look over the next ridge, “they would either need to build a second dam further along the river like I first speculated,” he threw his vest he’d been carrying over his shoulder so he’d have both hands free and scrambled over a large rock pushing out from the grassy forest floor. When he was standing on the edge of the large rock, he grabbed onto a nearby tree branch to steady himself and peered down into the canyon below. “Or,” he panted, a grin growing across his face, “they’d need to run a bunch of electrical lines through the woods somehow.”

 

Stiles turned back to grin triumphantly at Derek. They had been hiking through the forest along the river’s side for a few hours by that time. The landscape had quickly changed from low, flat land to steep, rocky hills. They had been forced further into the forest away from the river when the river’s edge had turned from a bank to that of a deep canyon. Just below them, now, jutting out from the canyon’s rock face, were six long disked insulators. Their heads were covered in amber-coloured glass domes and from each of them stretched conductors. Stiles pointed them out to Derek when he reached his side on the edge of the cliff. He didn’t comment on the fact that Derek’s first response wasn’t to look where Stiles was enthusiastically pointing, but to grab hold of his suspenders as if he thought Stiles might fall.

 

“Those wires,” said Derek after a beat, “they are... what you seek?”

 

“They mean electricity, Derek,” said Stiles, excitedly. “Actual storable, moveable electricity! This is the future, Derek! Not fifteen years ago, this would have seemed witchcraft! Now, it is the key to an unending source of energy! With stored electricity at the ready, there will be no need for so many of the more dangerous jobs. Our work force will be so much safer, Derek! And it’s a clean, energy, Derek. There will be less need for coal which means the cities will not have that heavy, pungent stench always hanging over them –I know you’d appreciate _that_.”

 

Derek hummed in response. Stiles’ grin grew slightly manic in his excitement. He didn’t really mind that Derek neither understood nor truly cared about the electrical lines he had pointed out for him. Upset though he was that his ideas were already in use; in that moment, Stiles was simply excited to see them actually coming to life. He knew that later, when he had more time to dwell on it, he’d be devastated that his ten-year-plan for grand success had been shattered. For now, he would save himself the melancholy and simply dwell in the exhilaration of their discovery.

 

“Okay, we just need to...” said Stiles, moving to jump down to the narrow ledge below the rock, but being held back by Derek’s grip on his suspenders. He looked back at Derek with a raised eyebrow.

 

 

“It is not safe for you,” said Derek, unapologetically.

 

“I can handle myself,” said Stiles, trying for a glare, but it was hard when he was excited about finding the power lines. Plus, it was rather adorable that Derek didn’t want him to fall.

 

“You cannot,” said Derek, shaking his head and pulling Stiles back by the suspenders. “I have seen.”

 

“Okay, while your concern is appreciated,” said Stiles, allowing Derek to pull him away from the edge of the cliff, but only so he could pull away from his grip once he was on flat ground, “That is borderline offensive. I assure you, I am not some...”

 

Stiles trailed off at the look Derek was giving him. It wasn’t angry or worried, not even annoyed, but it was definitely intense. Stiles stared back for a few beats, noticing the pale grey-green colour of his eyes for the first time. Derek’s eyes were scanning his face, taking everything in and constantly flicking back to Stiles’ own eyes. He couldn’t help himself; he had to glance down at Derek’s mouth, then. Stiles licked his own lips before he suddenly realized how close they were standing and the implications of his gaze. He quickly took a step to the side. Feeling awkward, Stiles cleared his throat and turned to look back over the canyon.

 

“As I was saying,” he said voice coming out with a slight waver, “we just need to follow these lines and we will learn what Harris is powering.”

 

He threw a forced grin back at Derek and added, “I hope it’s a secret evil lair!”

 

Derek frowned at him which just made Stiles laugh. It was a frown Stiles was quickly growing accustomed to. It was definitely a frown of confusion, but Stiles could detect some mild annoyance mixed in. Those, dark, heavy eyebrows of Derek’s were ever endearing themselves to Stiles with their ability to speak much fuller sentences than Derek ever seemed to.

 

Stiles picked his way down the side of the cliff. It was easy in some places, with good footholds and large tree roots to hold onto; in others, well, not so much. Derek grabbed Stiles a number of times to keep him from toppling down the cliff. He never seemed to tire, nor even momentarily lose his balance. It made sense if he truly was what Stiles suspected him to be. Stiles hadn’t pushed, though, not when Derek had looked so terrified when Stiles had brought it up.

 

Still, it made sense. He seemed to hear, see and even smell things that were out of Stiles’ range. He never seemed to grow tired. And, muscled as he was, he seemed much stronger than his build accounted for. Could he possibly be one of the fabled shape-shifters Stiles’ mother had told him stories of as a child? His father and most other folk had always claimed the stories to be completely fictional, but Stiles’ mother had been adamant that they were true.

 

Finally, they made their way down and around the curve of the mountain’s edge to find where the lines connected to a large concrete mound on the other side of the canyon. Stiles crouched down, his back braced against the wall of concrete, and breathed heavily for a time. He would be able to compete as a professional athlete in no time if all this strenuous activity continued. Derek didn’t even pretend to be out of breath this time. He must have decided that Stiles knew what he was and there was no need to hide it any longer.

 

Not just a wild mountain man, then.

 

Derek was a wolfman.

 

“Must be nice,” panted Stiles, carelessly.

 

Derek cocked his head to the side in silent askance. Stiles gestured at him.

 

“Not getting out of breath after climbing down an entire mountain,” explained Stiles with an eyeroll that perhaps he shouldn’t have done because it made him feel suddenly dizzy with how tired he already was.

 

“We did not climb down the entire mountain,” said Derek, simply.

 

Stiles laughed weakly before gulping another breath of air. So, he wasn’t hiding his abilities, but they were still not talking about them. Okay, Stiles could humour him. He simply concentrated on breathing for some time longer. When he finally felt like he could talk without risk of vomiting, he straightened and gestured at the concrete slab. It stood tall and brand new, not a single crack or crumble or growth of lichen on it. It connected held the wires that hand hung over the large canyon, and they rested on the large insulators protruding from it.

 

“We keep following these lines,” he said.

 

Derek nodded.

 

“Excellent,” said Stiles, nodding right back.

 

He took a deep breath and pushed away from the concrete completely. He followed the lines where they were strung overhead deeper into the forest, leaving the canyon behind. Derek was a quiet figure at his back, a silent guardian making Stiles feel a little more confident going so deeply into the forest. He was not accustomed to the forest, was not a man of the earth. He was a man of technology and ingenuity. Derek, though, Derek was a man of the forest, of nature... almost ironically so, considering he was most likely a wolfman –not completely man at all.

 

It felt like slow-going, picking their way through the forest, crossing fallen logs and heavy thickets. Surely it was at least faster than the painfully slow and tedious climb down and around the cliff side, but it still felt like forever –especially when there were no markers of their progress in the never-changing forest. Stiles tripped over a raised root at one point and landed heavily on his face. Derek had helped him up without a word and then hung back to allow Stiles to continue to lead. He didn’t ridicule or comment at all. It was good, but it also made Stiles’ cheeks heat with shame as he silently berated himself for being so graceless in front of someone who practically floated over the forest floor in his silent surefootedness.

 

Derek finally spoke an undetermined, but long time later. His voice was low and smooth, not in any way jarring, but its sudden return still had Stiles wincing in surprise.

 

“It is late. We are losing the sun,” said Derek. “We should stop to rest.”

 

Stiles agreed. When found a dry place above the mostly-mossy forest floor, Derek was quick to set to work starting a fire. Not knowing what to do with himself, Stiles sat down on the ground across from Derek and watched. It was growing rapidly dark in the forest without the sun’s presence high in the sky. Once he stopped moving, Stiles suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion fall over him in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. It had been a very long day, after all. They had rose before the sun to get Derek ready, and that was after being up most the night rescuing Derek from the Black Maria, had broken into Harris’ work yard to free Derek from his manacles, Stiles had found Harris’ secret plans, they had narrowly escaped being found out, had gone many a mile climbing over large rocks at the river’s edge, had travelled from the city into the forest, had climbed down a mountain’s cliff, and had spent who-knew-how-long traipsing through the forest. Stiles couldn’t have been more sore and tired if he had been run over by Derek’s stolen herd of horses.

 

And, in the dark forest, he was growing cold. Stiles put his vest back on, having taken it off earlier that day when the sun was high and he was sweating from exertion. It wasn’t much help, but it was something. He crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his hands up his elbows and biceps earnestly. He could feel his jaw start to twitch with the beginning of a true teeth chattering. Why hadn’t he thought to bring more clothes and blankets? Right. Because he hadn’t expected to leave the city with Derek. Then Harris’ shady plans had changed that.

 

When the first glows of flame flickered to life, Stiles let out a small sigh of relief and inched across the ground closer to the flame. He caught Derek’s eye when he looked up at him from where he was feeding twigs into the flame. Stiles opened his mouth to ask Derek something, but he didn’t know what. He closed his mouth again and shrugged to himself, casting his eyes back down to the orange flames of the growing fire. He didn’t know anything about him, not really. Well, he knew he was wrongly imprisoned for an unknown reason, knew that his horses were taken away from him and that he was now a homeless fugitive, and, he knew that Derek had a secret and that secret was most likely that he was a wolfman.

 

He didn’t really know him.

 

Yet, Stiles knew he liked him.

 

He had no proof for or against the notion that Derek was a good person, but he felt he was. And, because he felt Derek was a good person and because Stiles liked him, he really wanted to get to know him. He just had no idea where to start. He wanted to ask many questions, but didn’t know which ones to ask. So, instead, Stiles remained quiet. He was well aware most who knew him would consider this a feat.

 

When the fire was finally at a respectable size and crackling and snapping as it burned away the logs and branches Derek was feeding it, Stiles opened the sack and pulled out a loaf of bread for them to eat. He broke it in half and offered a side to Derek. They ate in silence, the forest growing ever colder around them. The night animals’ calls echoed out in the dark raising goosebumps on Stiles’ arms and neck. He tried to play them off as just him being cold.

 

“You probably like this far more than being in the city,” said Stiles after his unease with the dark forest around them had grown so much that he just had to hear another voice in the dark.

 

Derek only hummed as an answer though.

 

“Not me,” said Stiles with a nervous laugh. “Give me the stink of the city and the sounds of the neighbours arguing in the room next door and I’ll take it over this any day.”

 

“I will not let the bears eat you, Stiles,” said Derek.

 

Stiles looked up sharply at that. It was just in time to see Derek’s eyebrows take a new, strange shape in the flickering light of the campfire; everything below his eyes on his face was hidden in shadow. Was he grinning?

 

“You’re mocking me,” grumbled Stiles, though he felt a breathless sort of momentary excitement at the thought of Derek teasing him.

 

“Yes,” said Derek, honestly. Stiles grinned and rolled his eyes. “But I am not lying,” added Derek.

 

“You’re probably the scariest creature in the forest, anyway, right?” asked Stiles before he could stop himself.

 

Derek’s smile disappeared and Stiles mentally kicked himself.

 

“You do know what I am, then,” said Derek, not a question. His tone sounded as though he was only confirming something he had already assumed to be true.

 

“What do you call yourself?” asked Stiles.

 

“I...” started Derek before pausing and drawing his eyebrows together in that confused, annoyed way. Seeing that familiar expression in this scenario had Stiles wondering if he had misinterpreted it before. “In stories, balăom, or simply bală.”

 

“But that isn’t what you would call yourself?” asked Stiles, wondering at Derek’s choice in wording. “Are you the only... bal—the only one in your community, or...?”

 

“Many of my family are this way,” said Derek shaking his head.

 

Stiles hummed, taking in the new information. He took another bite of his bread and chewed it slowly as he watched the fire.

 

“What... do you... call us?” asked Derek stiltedly a few moments later. It surprised Stiles that he would actually instigate more conversation, especially of the current topic.

 

 

“Uh,” said Stiles, momentarily thrown. “Well, there’s a few things, but most people assume you’re not r... they think it’s just stories, you know?”

 

Stiles glanced across the fire at Derek to see him nodding.

 

“Well, a lot of people call it shape-shifting, or, more specifically, wolfmen,” continued Stiles. “That’s... that’s what you are, right? A wolfman?”

 

Derek’s eyes looked suddenly intense and Stiles felt like his were being held captive. Derek nodded very slowly. Stiles felt his heart rate kick up in his chest at Derek’s confirmation.

 

“That’s amazing,” he breathed.

 

Derek dropped his gaze, then. Stiles watched Derek curiously as he glared into the fire and took a bite of his bread and chewing it like it had personally offended him. He swallowed and then stared longer into the fire. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

 

“Wolf is better than monster,” Derek finally spoke, voice soft.

 

“Monster?” asked Stiles, “is that what... ball— what that word you said means?”

 

“Bală,” said Derek, nodding. “Rău balăom,” he whispered angrily into the fire, “an ill omen. Only bad things will follow him.”

 

“It seems to be true,” added Derek, softly.

 

Stiles swallowed drily. He took another bite of his bread and tried to ignore the cold seeping through his clothes, the ache in his muscles, and the thirst in his throat. Most importantly, he tried to ignore the haunted look in Derek’s eyes.

 

 

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

Derek woke just before the first light of the sun. The night’s chill was still in the air, but the sky straight above them was paling with dawn. Birds sang in the trees around them. If Derek concentrated, he could hear the sounds of other animals shifting around the forest further away from where he and Stiles had interrupted the forest’s quiet community. It was while concentrating on more distant sounds that Derek picked up the unsettling sounds of machinery and men working. He froze, listening hard.

 

Something large and heavy was moving across the land. It made loud hissing sounds at intervals. There were men shouting at each other to be heard over the noise of the large, heavy thing and the constant banging and clanging that Derek interpreted as metal hitting stone. It was a sound that was distantly familiar, but Derek pushed the memory away with a shudder. Every step they had taken through the forest the day before had taken them a step closer to Derek’s home.

 

Derek turned his attention across the ashes of their fire to Stiles’ sleeping form, instead. The young man was sleeping in an odd, bunched-up position, shuddering with cold with every exhale. Derek had stayed awake for most of the night as a look-out; too worried about the gendarmerie coming in the night to sleep. When the fire had gone out, he had laid the coat he had been wearing over Stiles’ sleeping form. Still, Stiles had shivered all night and into the morning. For a crazy second, Derek had considered shifting in form and laying over him to warm him like he did for his human siblings on cold winter nights. Of course, he didn’t. Looking at Stiles as he shivered in his sleep, bunched in a ball like an unborn baby, though, Derek wished he could.

 

He must have stared at Stiles too long, because Stiles began to stir as if Derek’s gaze alone had pulled him from his sleep. Derek quickly stood and busied himself with finding more dry twigs so he could start another fire. He hadn’t started one because he thought Stiles would want to get going as quickly as possible upon waking, not sit around heating himself by the fire. The young man was not one to lounge around when he was excited about something. But, he was also very cold and Derek needed to be seen doing something other than sitting and staring at him like some sort of strange predator when Stiles first opened his eyes.

 

Dry kindling found, Derek crouched by the ashes from the night before and began working to start the fire. Stiles’ breathing had changed a few beats prior, but he yet to rouse himself. Possibly his mind was not yet awake and he was hoping to fall back to sleep. Derek was certain he hadn’t had a restful sleep without bed or blankets, and the day before had been a long one. It was partially because of those assumptions and partially because of their choice of subject that Stiles’ first words to him that morning startled him so much.

 

“If you truly are a shapeshifter, why didn’t you just shift and escape that way,” questioned Stiles.

 

Every time he brought up Derek being bală, or wolfman as he had called it the night before, it made a cold panic seize Derek’s chest. He forced himself to take a few breaths and not show how the topic upset him before he answered.

 

“Had I shifted in the prison carriage, I still could not have escaped it,” he said while staring down at the sticks in his hands he was more holding than using at that point.

 

“Okay, but you could have shifted after I unlocked it and have been free of the manacles without relying on my clumsy attempts at getting them off your wrists,” said Stiles. Derek heard him move into a sitting position behind him.

 

“You were not supposed to know what I am,” said Derek, simply.

 

“You could have just run off when you got out of the Black Maria, though,” said Stiles. “You wouldn’t have had to let me know what you were at all.”

 

“I didn’t know the way,” argued Derek.

 

“So, you stuck with me and let me almost mutilate your wrists,” said Stiles with disbelief obvious in his voice. Derek finally turned to face Stiles, but it was a bad idea because it gave Stiles the chance to grab hold of his forearm.

 

“They would have healed,” said Derek, weakly as Stiles’ touch sent a wave of tingling gooseflesh up his arm.

 

“I don’t think you understand the...” Stiles began, but he trailed off when he looked down at Derek’s wrists and found them clear.

 

Derek swallowed heavily, nervously watching the way Stiles’ eyebrows drew together in surprised confusion. His heart was beating twice as fast as he allowed Stiles to lightly run his fingers over the place where Derek’s skin had been an angry-red and partially blistered the day before. He kept his eyes on Stiles, not daring to look down at Stiles’ long fingers against the vulnerable skin of the inside of his wrists. He quickly realized it hadn’t been better to look at Stiles’ face when Stiles finally looked up at him. His metal glasses had been cast away the night before and now Derek could experience the magnitude of those large, bright eyes. They were a colour that matched the coppers and bronzes of the strange little machines of the city and those odd metal glasses he usually wore. They were much more alive though, like little flames dancing in amber. Derek needed to look away, but though he tried, he couldn’t force himself to. It was almost a relief when Stiles finally looked back down at Derek’s wrist.

 

“You can also heal faster than humans,” Stiles said in sudden understanding.

 

Derek nodded; sucking in a breath after the force of Stiles’ eyes had knocked him momentarily breathless. Stiles let go of his arm, leaving Derek’s skin there feeling more raw than heated iron cuffs ever could.

 

“Thank you for the...” said Stiles, letting himself trail off as he handed the coat back to Derek without meeting his eyes.

 

Derek could hear Stiles’ heartbeat pounding hard and fast. Of everything Derek could do, healing was what had finally made Stiles fearful of him? It made no sense. Derek took the coat back and put it on. Though he would have rather Stiles kept wearing it. As a wolfman, he did not grow cold as quickly as Stiles, but he doubted bringing up that fact was a good idea in that moment.

 

“I heard men working in the distance,” Derek said hoping to change the subject as he went back to rubbing the sticks he still had in his hands together.

 

“Where?” barked Stiles in sudden excitement.

 

Derek nodded in the direction.

 

He was on his feet and putting on his glasses straightaway. He grabbed up the bag and started leaving their make-shift campsite. “Forget the fire, Derek,” he said excitedly, “we must AWAY!”

 

Derek smiled to himself, strangely proud that he had predicted Stiles’ desire to leave quickly. He set down the sticks and got to his feet. “Okay,” he said before following after Stiles.

 

They wandered through the forest for some time following the sounds so distant that only Derek’s ears could pick up. Stiles, to Derek’s mild amusement, spent the time tripping over roots and muttering angry things about Derek’s ‘confounding long-range hearing’ having made him think they were closer than they were. But, as they went, the sounds grew louder and an acrid scent was on the wind.

 

Finally, they came to the edge of a new clearing at the base of the mountains. The sound of the large, moving machine was overwhelmingly loud to Derek there. His head began to ache. There were other sounds as well; metal clanging against stone, men working, men yelling angrily, and many things Derek had no frame of reference to begin to determine.

 

Stiles dropped to his knees and crawled through the thickest of the underbrush, most likely hoping it would keep him from being seen. Derek followed in a crouch. He knelt at his side when they reached the very edge of the newly-made clearing, His shoulder bumping against Stiles’. His heart felt tight in his chest. They were distressingly close to Derek’s home at that point. So close that he could recognize familiar scents on the breeze when the acrid stink of whatever was in the clearing didn’t drown them out. If he and Stiles had ventured further, crossed the peak of the mountain that stood almost straight across the clearing from them, they would descend into the grassy hills where Derek had kept his horses.

 

Large buildings were being constructed in the clearing. The largest seemed nearly complete and stood where part of the large hill on the side of the mountain had been leveled to a raised, flat platform. Men were everywhere; like ants establishing a new anthill. There was something that looked like half of a bridge standing on tall stilts leading into a hole in the side of one of the mountains. The loud sounds of metal hitting stone were coming from inside the hole.

 

“What is this?” breathed Derek.

 

“It looks like...” started Stiles, but he trailed off. Derek kept his eyes on the ugly mess of buildings and machinery filling the small mountaintop valley in front of them. He watched as the large machine that was making the strange hissing sounds at intervals moved slowly over the ground in the far corner of the clearly. The hissing it made came when huge bouts of steam came out the tall metal cylinder at the top. It was pushing large amounts of dirt and underbrush, scraping the earth into a flat, ugly floor.

 

“It looks like,” Stiles started again, this time his voice sounding more excited in its hissed whisper, “It’s the beginnings of a mine and... mill. I think it’s a smelting mill. It’s an _electric s_ melting mill! Electric, Derek! Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you electricity would--”

 

“That looks like Pitivo,” said Derek, interrupting the beginnings of Stiles’ excited rant.

 

Stiles paused. “Pitty-what?”

 

“Pitivo,” repeated Derek, his breathing going rough as he watched the familiar man working in the clearing. “I traded a horse to him the summer last,” explained Derek. “He lived not far from my family, he... Stiles!”

 

Derek’s heart jumped into his throat at the sudden realization. He grabbed Stiles’ shoulder.

 

“He had been arrested by gendarmerie some time before me,” he said, his heart threatening to beat from his throat.

 

“What,” spoke Stiles lowly, staring at Derek with eyes wide. “Was he released?”

 

Derek shook his head

 

“Then why is he here?” asked Stiles in confusion.

 

Derek looked back to the workers. Pitivo was heading inside the large building. Derek got to his feet and crept through the bushes keeping low and out of sight.

 

“What are you doing?” hissed Stiles, but Derek could hear him following behind.

 

Derek jogged in a crouch around the edge of the clearing until he was on the side closest to the building Pitivo had gone into. The air grew ever more pungently acrid. It was close to the clearing and he doubted many would notice him, so, with a deep breath, Derek left the cover of the forest and ran to the building’s side. He could hear Stiles curse strongly behind him before clumsily follow suit.

 

“We will get caught,” hissed Stiles after running into his back when Derek abruptly stopped at the side of the building.

 

Derek didn’t respond. He had to know why Pitivo was there.

 

There was a window close by with many barrels sitting on the ground near it. Derek jumped onto a barrel and peeked inside the building. He saw that the closest side was half-full of huge, ugly, metal machines so that there was very little area to walk. There were many men inside putting together the machinery, pushing wide-ended sticks around the rock-strewn floors, and starting large fires in the mouths of wide furnaces. None of their actions made sense to Derek. But, even if Derek did not understand the jobs they were doing, what he did observe was the faces. Many were Romani.

 

“Yanoro is here as well,” he said lowly to Stiles.

 

“Another friend of yours?” asked Stiles sounding perturbed.

 

Derek grunted in response. He watched the movement inside the building with eyes only for the faces of the men. He recognized no others, however. Stiles was pulling at his arm, so he finally stepped down from the barrel.

 

“Why do Romani men work here?” he asked Stiles

 

Stiles didn’t answer, instead pushed past him to awkwardly climb on the barrel. Derek watched him struggle for a beat before helping him with steadying hands. Once Stiles was standing on the barrel, Derek could have stepped away, but he kept a hand on the back of Stiles’ thigh in case he should lose his balance.

 

“Wow,” breathed Stiles after a moment. “Just look at all that machinery! They’ve already gotten so far into building this.”

 

“Stiles,” whined Derek, frustrated that Stiles was so caught up in his excitement. He was not paying attention to the right things!

 

“So many pipes, Derek! So many insulated cables,” said Stiles. “The sheer volume of production this mill will be capable of when it is up and running... this is unbelievable!”

 

“Stiles,” said Derek, again. “The workers.”

 

“Oh, yes, it’ll be dreadfully dangerous to its workers when up and running; just the heat itself can cause a myriad of sicknesses. Then there’s the lead and other poisonings workers can get from the chemical reactions needed in order to produce the new metals ,” said Stiles, nodding as he counted out all the stomach churning reasons Derek did not want his people working there. Derek could see he was still staring into the building with excitement as he spoke, so he knew Stiles really wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. “I certainly would never want to wo—“

 

“The workers, Stiles,” hissed Derek, tightening his grip on Stiles’ thigh. “They are Romani!”

 

“Why would Romani want to work in a...” Stiles stopped. “Do you think they’re prisoners?”

 

Derek looked up at Stiles and met his shocked look with an angry glower.

 

Stiles jumped down from the barrel. Derek was surprised he would choose to react at all considering he had been so busy falling in love with the large, ugly building full of large ugly things. Derek ground his teeth and hurried after him back to the clearing’s edge and the safe cover of the forest.

 

“You believe these people are all here as slave labour?” asked Stiles once they were both back in the trees.

 

“Romani would not work here by choice,” answered Derek curtly, wrinkling his nose.

 

Stiles had said the plans to create this... monstrosity had been stolen from him. This was what Stiles had wanted to build. He was just like the rest of the city men. He was just as selfish and destructive. He had even said he preferred the stench and noise of the city to the peaceful forests and mountains that were Derek’s home. And he _had_ only freed Derek so Derek would help him find this place. Well, Derek had helped, his debt was fulfilled.

 

Derek moved quickly through the brush, much faster than before, not caring whether Stiles could keep up— well, hoping that he would not. He came to a halt, though, when he saw the familiar prison carriage pull into the clearing by a small, partially hidden road he had not seen earlier. The horses pulling it were uneasy as if they knew the place they had just entered was not a place for life.

 

Stiles ran right into his back, then, nearly causing him to lose his balance. He grabbed the trunk of a nearby tree to keep himself upright and turned to glare back at Stiles. Stiles was panting from trying to keep up with him, sweat dotting his forehead and making the hair on the sides of his head damp. Derek motioned for him to look at the black prison carriage as it bumped along the uneven ground into the clearing.

 

“Not by choice,” he said, simply.

 

Stiles cursed under his breath a few times when he saw what Derek was pointing to.

 

“A Black Maria,” said Stiles. They both turned to stare at it for a few beats. A few gendarmerie jumped off the front while others approached from a small building to the side. The back door was unlocked and two people, obviously Romani, were led out. They were blindfolded and had their hands cuffed behind their backs just like Derek had been. Stiles gasped. “This was your fate,” he said, his hand finding Derek’s arm. Derek wanted to shrug him off, still angry at him, but he didn’t. “You weren’t bound for Siberia. You were to be brought here to work as a slave. They blindfolded you so you wouldn’t be able to see out the window where they were going.”

 

“I would have known,” said Derek. “They would not have been able to keep me.”

 

“But these people, they aren’t all shape shifters like you,” said Stiles, though it had a slight question to it.

 

“No,” agreed Derek. “A cruel trick.”

 

Stiles nodded in agreement before pausing. Derek glanced at him and saw the question on his face. Yes, it was a cruel trick, anyway, but obviously Stiles had picked up from Derek’s tone that there was more to it than that.

 

“We are but a few hours walk away from my home,” admitted Derek.

 

“You’re almost home?” asked Stiles, perking up. “You could go see your fa—“

 

“No,” cut in Derek. “We must stop this,” he said waving his hand at the clearing.

 

“Yes,” said Stiles, with a nod, his face sobering once again. “This is heinous. It has to be shut down.”

 

Derek’s heart lifted at that. Perhaps Stiles was not the same as the rest of the city men.

 

“How could Harris be running _all_ of this under everyone’s noses?” asked Stiles, a multitude of expressions crossing his face. Always, his face was its own language, a continuously changing picture of his emotions and thoughts. “And if the gendarmerie are involved then...” said Stiles trailing off. A horrified look crept over his face the longer he stayed thoughtful. Derek watched as Stiles shook his head and swallowed before speaking again, his voice weak with the weight of his words, “If the gendarmerie are involved, then this goes a lot deeper than just Harris.”

 

Derek could hear Stiles’ heart pick up and a new sour smell met his nostrils, worse than the acrid stench of the mine and mill they had discovered, it was the stink of panic.

 

“Stiles,” said Derek, softly. “You must breathe.”

 

He reached for Stiles’ shoulder and directed him back away from the clearing’s edge. Stiles’ heart rate continued to rise. It made fear clench in Derek’s chest. He directed Stiles to sit down on a fallen log a few paces further into the forest before crouching in front of him.

 

“Stiles?” asked Derek.

 

“I need a moment,” said Stiles between gulps of air.

 

Derek backed up to give him some space. He watched feeling helpless as Stiles rocked in place, seeming to have trouble breathing. Seconds ticked by long as hours and Derek didn’t know what to do to help Stiles. It was frightful. Finally, _finally_ Stiles’ heart rate began to level as his breathing, though still ragged, became forcibly measured. Stiles gestured for Derek to approach him and Derek quickly crouched back down in front of him.

 

“Stiles?” he asked again.

 

Stiles didn’t answer, but moved forward to lean his forehead on Derek’s shoulder. It startled him that Stiles would seek comfort from him, but Derek slowly raised his arms and gently wrapped them around Stiles’ shoulders. It was the right thing to do because Stiles immediately melted into him, letting out a small choked sound.

 

“This is too big,” he said after a few, long moments of pressing his face into the crook of Derek’s neck and shoulder. His voice sounded so small. Derek held him tighter and couldn’t help but breathe in his scent, wishing it wasn’t tainted with fear.

 

It was a few minutes more before Stiles grew antsy in Derek’s arms and Derek quickly let him go, unsure if his touch was still welcome. Stiles rose to his feet and turned his back to Derek. It was obvious he was wiping tears from his face, but Derek did not say a word, content to let Stiles try to regain some of his pride. Stiles cleared his throat a few times before turning back to Derek. His face was a blotchy red, but his expression was set in something more grave than scared now that he had had a moment to regain his composure. Derek remained silent.

 

“We must go back to the city and send a wire to my father in Poland,” said Stiles stiffly. “He is a retired colonel and will know what to do. This obviously runs far deeper than just Mister Harris’ secret voltaic batteries.”

 

Half of the words Stiles spoke made no sense to Derek, but the resolve on Stiles’ face and fear in his scent let Derek know that Stiles was committed to helping him. No, Stiles was not like the city men who had put this together. Just like Derek had hoped and recently begun to recognize, Stiles _was_ a good man.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

“We can make the walk in a day, correct?” asked Stiles, hiking through the trees as quickly as he could and tripping over every other root and undergrowth he came across.

 

The reply he got was a low hum from Derek. It wasn’t really a yes or no, but Stiles took is as a yes. Stiles was uneasy imagining how the gendarmerie were involved and he didn’t want to waste a night in the forest now that he had this information. Something as big as an entire mine and powered by what was going to be the largest dam in Europe, wasn’t something that just one person could have thrown together. How could Harris had possibly put everything into motion? How did he have the funds? Yes, he was highest paid engineer in Europe, but...

 

“Stiles,” spoke Derek, pulling Stiles from his thoughts.

 

Stiles paused and looked back at Derek. He had been eager to shut the entire mill down the moment he had recognized one of the workers. On top of that, he was able to move much faster than Stiles. Yet, Derek was following Stiles at a rather sedate pace. Before Stiles had a moment to ask why, though, Derek was already answering the question.

 

“How will I enter the city without being caught?” asked Derek.

 

That gave Stiles pause. He wiped a hand over his sweating face, the sun was high in the sky by that point in the day and he was tired, hungry, and panting from his hurried hike. With the coat back on, Derek would still look more like a city man than Romani, though his previous beard was already coming back thick and dark. Stiles, on the other hand, would be the promblematic one, in this case. He was dressed as a gentleman, but his hair and clothes were roughed as if he had spent two days tromping through the forest (which he had). There was no doubt in his mind that his appearance would catch attention when they entered the streets of the city. If he caught attention, _they_ would catch suspicion, and if they did that... well... soon Derek would be found.

 

“What do you look like when you shift?” asked Stiles, suddenly.

 

He watched as Derek’s dark eyebrows drew together.

 

“You’re a shape shifter, correct?” asked Stiles excitedly, partly-formed ideas beginning to bounce around inside his skull. “What do you look like in your other form? When you shift, do you turn into a wolf?”

 

“Yes,” said Derek looking wary.

 

“Completely like a wolf?” asked Stiles.

 

“Yes,” said Derek, again, this time a bit slower, drawing the word out. Stiles could tell he didn’t like where Stiles’ mind was going, but Stiles pressed on, regardless.

 

“When we get to the city, you could shift into your wolf form and come as my--” said Stiles, grinning at how excellent his idea was, but he was cut off.

 

“I am _not_ a dog,” growled Derek.

 

“Yes, but—” argued Stiles.

 

“I will not pose as your pet,” Derek growled even lower, cutting Stiles off again.

 

Stiles took a step backward when he saw Derek’s eyes flash an electric blue. Momentary as it was, it was enough to remind Stiles of the fact that he was in the company of a wild, magical shape shifter. Well, not so much remind (especially considering the current topic of argument), but actually, for the first time, truly impress upon him. Derek, though, for his part, actually looked a little cowed at whatever expression of fear that had crossed Stiles’ face, because he stepped back and bowed his head.

 

“Stiles, I cannot be a dog on a lead,” said Derek, quietly.

 

Swallowing and forcing his breathing to even out, Stiles nodded. There was something in Derek’s tone, in his body language, in his words that told Stiles this was no small issue. Derek looked vulnerable in that moment and, coupled with the ferocity in his face the second before; Stiles knew this was something that must run deep in Derek’s psyche. The problem was, he had no other ideas that he felt could ensure Derek remained hidden.

 

“No leash, then,” said Stiles. “Just some fellow and his wolf companion.”

 

“Still,” spoke Derek. “This will bring attention, will it not? Should I... be on a leash, I will be a very large beast on one. Should I be free walking by your side, I will make others fearful.”

 

“There is no warrant for my arrest, though,” said Stiles. “Sure, it’ll cause many people to stare, but nothing more should come from it.”

 

Stiles watched Derek frown in response. He felt a moment of pride thinking that few would probably know the current contemplative look on Derek’s face from a look of contempt. Then he instantly felt himself a fool for his thoughts. What did it matter that he was beginning to be able to differentiate Derek’s expressions? It didn’t mean that he... that they... well, it didn’t mean anything. Stiles had only known the man two days and he barely even _knew_ him.

 

Two days? So much had happened in only two days.

 

Two days ago, Stiles’ only thought was getting Mr. Harris to reconsider him as a second apprentice. Two Days ago, all Stiles cared about was being ‘discovered’ and getting the funding to try out his designs for an altered voltaic pile that could store electricity. Two Days ago, Stiles had no idea that his exciting new designs had already been drawn up by someone else and were currently being put into nefarious use. Nefarious as they were, they rendered Stiles’ exciting new designs null. Stiles’ ten year plan of becoming the next greatest engineer and scientist in Europe was ruined.

 

“I’ll do it,” said Derek with a resigned sigh, pulling Stiles from his own thoughts.

 

Stiles’ heart jumped at his words. He opened his mouth to speak, but Derek spoke again.

 

“But no leash,” said Derek.

 

“No leash,” agreed Stiles, nodding exuberantly. Occupied as he was with the task ahead of them and the devastation of his loss, Stiles was excited to see Derek shift into his wolf form. The way Derek rolled his eyes at him quickly indicated to Stiles just how obvious his excitement over the matter was.

 

They continued on. Now that they weren’t following the river or scouring the forest for any sign of a second dam or electrical wires, they could hurry to the city. They could take the most direct route following Derek’s nose and Stiles’ questionable sense of direction –so, mostly Derek’s nose. It was nearing evening when they came to the edge of the forest. The road lay just beyond the last bushes of the forest and the tallest buildings of the city rose up in the distance. Stiles was tired from the long day and a little faint for lack of food, but he was determined.

 

“Now or never, friend,” said Stiles, turning back to Derek from where he was peering out from the bushes and heavy underbrush of the forest’s edge.

 

Derek was already taking off his overcoat, though. Stiles swallowed heavily with a ‘gulp’ when he realized why. He took the coat when Derek offered it, but turned away when Derek began unbuttoning his shirt. As much as he wanted to see what Derek looked like while shifting, propriety spoke louder and he couldn’t just stand and stare as the man got naked.

 

Moments passed and Stiles buzzed with the need to turn around to watch, to check on Derek’s status, but he kept his eyes on the trees ahead of him and his body turned away from Derek. There was some rustling and then a barely audible, low grunt. Stiles bit his lip, anticipation frustrating him even though mere seconds were all that had passed.

 

Then, Derek gave a low huff that was more canine than human. Stiles slowly turned around and found himself greeted with the sight of a tall, black wolf. Stiles’ heart ratcheted up in his chest. Intellectually, he knew this was still Derek standing before him on four legs with his shoulder as high as Stiles’ waist, but there was nothing intellectual about the instinctual terror that seized his chest at being so close to such a large predator.

 

“Whoa,” breathed Stiles when he finally found his voice.

 

The wolf let out a huff that could have been annoyed, could have been amused, could have been some ancient canine word for ‘I will now eat you’, either way, Stiles couldn’t help but take a step backward. Of course, were Derek actually planning on eating him, there was nothing Stiles could do at that point to stop it. The step backward only confounded him, though, because in doing so, Stiles tripped over a small stump and fell. He scrunched his eyes shut and let out a strangled sound as he went down. His panicked sound was met by a soft growl.

 

Stiles opened his eyes to find the wolf –Derek standing over him, looking down at him with his head cocked to the side. Stiles let out a shaky breath and, unexpectedly, a strangled laugh came out with it. Derek pressed his cold, wet nose to Stiles’ neck for a brief moment before backing away and letting Stiles get up.

 

“Sorry,” said Stiles, brushing himself off and feeling completely humiliated. “I... sorry, if I offended I... heh... I guess I wasn’t as ready for that as I thought.”

 

Derek let out another canine huff. Stiles felt fortunate Derek couldn’t talk at that moment.

 

“Ready to head into the city?” asked Stiles, unable to keep his eyes from travelling all over Derek’s wolf form. It was just amazing that there existed someone who could shift from one form to another as Derek had done.

 

Derek began walking forward in lieu of a reply, so Stiles quickly gathered up Derek’s clothes and stuffed them in the bag that had once been filled with bread.

 

They followed the road, meeting a few people as they went and many more the closer they got to the city. Stiles gritted his teeth at the first real expression of apprehension he received, but, though many of the people they passed did double-takes when they saw the wolf at his side, no one actually bothered him. They were probably too fearful of the wolf to voice their opinion of Stiles’ roughened appearance or the creature at his side.

 

The sun was low in the sky when they reached the city, but Stiles did not want to wait until the next morning to send a message to his father. So, they moved quickly to the city centre where the city hall and other community buildings stood. Derek was an ever quiet presence at his side – though hardly moreso than in human form. The thought gave Stiles a short, amused snort.

 

The small building near the city hall still had life inside when they arrived, so Stiles pushed in through the front door, leaving Derek to sit at the front step –this wasn’t the uncivilized, romanticized West after all; dog or wolf, Derek would not be permitted in the building in his canine form.

 

New nerves bit at Stiles’ raw nerve endings when he entered the building, ready to send his message to his father. He had been overwhelmed at their discovery that morning, alarmed by Derek’s wolf form, nervous of the scrutinizing eyes suddenly cast their way at their return to civilization, but now he had new worries. How deep did the plot run? How would he word his message as so not to gain suspicion from anyone involved who might be in the building with him at that moment? Would his father understand a vague wording? Would his father actually be able to help? How long did they have?

 

Stiles took a deep breath and approached the desk nearly bumping into a red-headed woman on her way out who he quickly realized was Miss Lydia Martin.

 

“You,” breathed Stiles, all his fretful, tumultuous thoughts coming together into an outburst that was most definitely ill-advised. “How could you do this? How could you be part of something so terrible? You of all people—“

 

“Excuse me? _Me of all people_?” snapped Lydia, not missing a beat even though Stiles had accosted her out of the blue. She lifted her chin and gave him the most disdainful look Stiles had ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. “Sir, you have no idea of the person I am or what I’m capable of! _Me of all people_ , indeed!”

 

Stiles balled his fists and let out a ridiculous squeak of pent up rage.

 

“Lives matter, Miss Martin,” he managed to say after a beat of angry flailing. “It doesn’t matter race or social standing. I would have hoped you, with your advanced intellect and your love of science, could be smart enough to know that, at least.”

 

It was at that point that a flicker of confusion passed over Miss Martin’s face and Stiles suddenly realized two things; one, Lydia had no idea what they were arguing about and, two, they were in a public building with many witnesses. Stiles shut his mouth with a click of teeth. Lydia’s mask was back in place and the lift of her chin and angle of her raised eyebrow threatened to have Stiles shrinking away. He wouldn’t let that happen, though.

 

“Perhaps,” he said lowly, “you should enquire with Mister Harris about the plans for altered voltaic piles mixed in with his dam’s schematics.”

 

He stepped past Lydia, then, tipping his head at her in the expected and proper show of respect. It seemed ludicrous after his outburst, but it seemed to help salve most of the ruffled onlookers. Miss Martin left the building moments after and Stiles’ shoulders dropped with her leaving. He took a deep breath and approached the front desk with purpose.

 

\---------------------------

 

It felt wrong to be back in the city; especially to be sitting in full-view when he was a wanted criminal. It was even more disconcerting to be seen by other people in his wolf form. A small whine escaped Derek’s throat unexpectedly and he was just glad Stiles wasn’t near to hear it. Derek slid his front paws out in front of him and laid down, letting out a heavy huff of breath as he did. He could feel the nervous looks people were sending his way as they passed by and, though he bristled at looking as vulnerable as he felt, he needed to look less intimidating –at least until Stiles came back out. He couldn’t have the gendarmerie alerted of a wild wolf running around the city. He momentarily wished he _had_ let Stiles put a collar and leash on him even though the thought of one made his blood feel cold in its veins.

 

Derek closed his eyes and listened for Stiles’ familiar voice in the building, trying to find an anchor. Instead of Stiles, though, the first voice that found his ears was a different one, though just as familiar –if not more. Derek’s eyes shot open and he quickly rose to his feet. His sudden movement startled spooked a child who’d been walking past with his mother. He started to cry and clutch at her dress. Derek felt bad for frightening the little boy, but it was frustrating to have the wailing in his ears when he was listening for that voice.

 

He scanned the large city square filled with motion, multiple roads converging on one big open roadway, listening hard as he did. Finally, finally caught sight of what he had been looking for. There, at the side of the building, were three gendarmerie in their uniforms, a black horse hooked to a black prison carriage, and... Scott.

 

Scott, his cousin, was in manacles, standing with his shoulders slumped in defeat and his head tipped forward. One of the gendarmerie was tying a blindfold around his eyes while another waited at the open back door of the prison carriage. Anger began to grow low in Derek’s chest. Scott was his little cousin; his little cousin who wouldn’t hurt a soul and had been following Derek around since the day he could walk. They were going to take him to that terrible place. They would make him help finish building and force him to work there. Derek couldn’t let that happen. He lunged forward, the growl in his throat growing into full-out seething complete with bared teeth. He would tear the faces off each gendarmerie officer he found.

 

“Derek, No!” exclaimed Stiles, grabbing fistfuls of Derek’s fur at his neck and shoulder and falling down atop him.

 

Falling to the ground in a pile of fur, Derek let out a yelp of surprise, turning his neck and shoulders to bite at his attacker. His mind caught up to his body just in time and kept his teeth away from Stiles’ flesh.

 

“Don’t give us away,” Stiles hissed, hands still clenched in his fur.

 

Derek whined.

 

“I know, buddy,” said Stiles, releasing his fur and patting his shoulder before rising to stand.

 

“Sir?” questioned a nearby gentleman. “Are you quite alright?”

 

Derek stayed down when he realized their kerfuffle had gained them a sea of onlookers. He eyed them before turning his gaze on Stiles who was brushing himself off and trying but failing to plaster a dignified look on his face.

 

“Yes, yes. Thank you, good sir,” said Stiles. “I apologize for the disruption.”

 

Derek rolled his eyes, but got to his feet and shook. He forced himself to wag his tail at their audience and moved to bump his nose familiarly against one of Stiles’ hands for good measure. The crowd began to disperse and Derek glanced back to Scott to find the gendarmerie gone and the carriage’s back door shut and locked. He whined.

 

“What’s wrong, Derek?” asked Stiles, lowly.

 

Derek rolled his eyes again, because he couldn’t actually answer. Still he looked toward the prison carriage across the way and let out a low growl. When he looked over at Stiles, he could tell he had mostly understood because he was looking toward it with narrowed eyes.

 

“Someone you know is in the Black Maria,” assumed Stiles and Derek whined in confirmation. Stiles sighed. “Look, we can’t do anything about it right now. We can’t just go charging in.”

 

Derek understood that, but he couldn’t help but whine softly.

 

“Let’s go get something to eat,” suggested Stiles. “Then, when it is dark...”

 

Stiles let it trail off, but Derek understood; they would free Scott like Stiles had freed Derek.

 

\---------------------------

 

It was a strange recurrence to be following Stiles through the empty alleys of the city that night. It all felt the same, except it was completely different; a reverse of how he first met Stiles only days prior. Stranger still was that he was doing it in wolf form. Stiles walked with a strange gait, trying to keep his boots from clacking on the cobblestone that Derek’s paws were soundless against. When the carriage came into view, Stiles paused in the shadows.

 

“It is likely that extra measures have been put into place since your escape,” explained Stiles, lowly. “What of your canine senses, Derek? Can you sense anyone waiting for us?”

 

Derek inhaled sharply, heart feeling as though it were stuttering in his chest. The idea of being taken by surprise the moment they set foot out of the shadows into the wide circle of the city centre churned his stomach. With determination, Derek turned his eyes on the street ahead of them to take survey of the landscape. He scanned over everything thrice, but nothing seemed suspicious. Still, he was not convinced. Derek lifted his wolf muzzle, scenting the air. It was of little use; the city was still too new to him, the scents all mixing in a vile smell that clogged his nostrils leaving him unable to pick anything as being out of place. The same went for his hearing. There was constant noise when he concentrated on his higher hearing. It was overwhelming making it hard not to simply focus on the familiar heartbeat and breathing patterns of Stiles at his side, especially when Derek was feeling so ill-at-ease. Stiles had become something of an anchor to him in this strange new world Derek had been thrust into.

 

 

It was only after another visual sweep of the dark, empty street that Derek heard it. Derek’s ears caught on the murmuring of someone near the black carriage. It wasn’t Scott. Scott, he could hear, was shivering in his fitful sleep, breathing constantly changing in rhythm because of it. No, this was someone else. Derek tensed. The person was murmuring to himself about being cold and wishing he had brought another coat or blanket.

 

“Anything?” whispered Stiles, obviously getting impatient at waiting in the dark.

 

How would Derek tell him? He let out a soft growl and ducked back a step. Stiles followed.

 

“There’s something,” said Stiles, lowly.

 

Derek nodded his big, canine head.

 

“Damnation,” hissed Stiles. “What do we do?”

 

Derek turned back to the view of the city centre. Were there more people lying in wait or was it just that one guard? He could creep up on him and rip his throat out before he would even recognize what was going on. Stiles would probably not approve of that idea, though. It would probably be the fastest, easiest method, but Derek didn’t want Stiles to see him as a true monster. Truthfully, he wasn’t actually that keen on shedding blood, either –even if it were just the blood of a gendarmerie officer.

 

He was considering his options when the officer’s annoyed murmurings caught his ear again. This time, he was saying something to himself about running to find a blanket at the stable across the street. He was arguing with himself about leaving his post when he was on duty, but Derek could hear how his teeth were beginning to clatter. Derek hadn’t felt the extra chill in the air that night, not with his thick, dark fur, but he had seen how Stiles had layered on an extra coat. When the officer finally won his argument against himself and began to leave his post, Derek grabbed Stiles’ sleeve in his teeth and tugged him forward.

 

“We’re good, now?” asked Stiles in a surprised whisper.

 

Derek let go his sleeve and huffed up at him. _Obviously, now hurry._ It was as though Stiles could actually hear his thoughts, because he quickly jogged toward the carriage, back stooped and head down like he actually thought that’d help keep him hidden and not just make him look more suspicious. Derek shook his head and loped after Stiles.

 

“Stand watch and I’ll work on the lock,” commanded Stiles in a whisper when they reached the carriage.

 

Derek turned his back to him and scanned the city centre. While listening intently for a sign of the officer’s return, he noticed Stiles’ voice must have roused Scott because the sleepy shivers had stopped. He wished he could speak so he could tell Scott not to worry, that he was there. Stiles managed to get the door’s padlock open before the officer returned, however, just as Stiles swung the back door open, Derek caught the sound of the gendarmerie officer’s approaching footfalls.

 

Derek let out a soft whine. He heard Stiles’ breathing stutter at that, so he knew Stiles understood. Still, Derek wasn’t sure how they were going to get out of there without bloodshed should they be seen. Fortunately, they were on the opposite side of the carriage as the officer, it gave them a few seconds for Stiles to whisper an odd greeting to Scott and quickly untie his blindfold. The first thing Scott’s eyes landed on was Derek’s black form.

 

“Derek,” cried Scott in a whisper. Derek couldn’t help the way his tail wagged like a dog in response. “We did not know where—“

 

“Shh, someone’s coming,” hissed Stiles, cutting off Scott.

 

The officer must have decided to check the carriage after leaving it for those few moments. Derek made a split second decision and jumped out from around the back of it, hackles up and teeth bared. The officer was portly with a horse blanket hanging over his shoulders. He nearly fell on his backside in surprise. Derek let a growl reverberate deep in his throat before snapping his teeth. The gendarmerie dropped his blanket and clumsily pulled his gun from his belt. Without giving any warning, he fired at Derek, the sound echoing through the quiet city centre. Derek easily dodged the shot, though he barely had to from the way the officer’s hand had shook throwing off his aim. Derek lunged, snapping his teeth dangerously close to flesh. The officer scrambled backwards, cursing loudly.

 

Scott and Stiles had run off, taking Derek’s actions as the diversion they were meant to be. Derek snapped his teeth at the officer one more time before leaving. He ran at a lazy lope in the opposite direction from Scott and Stiles around the open circle of the city centre expecting more officers to show up shortly at the sound of the gun. When none came, he ran into the shadows of the nearest buildings. There, out of sight, he changed course and dug in, running at a much higher speed in order to catch up with Scott and Stiles.

 

He found them up the alley, catching their breaths in the same place where Stiles had stopped to catch his the night he had saved Derek.

 

“Derek,” breathed Stiles when Derek approached, “much gratitude.”

 

Derek huffed in reply, and, feeling brave, moved to press his nose into Stiles’ hand, giving the inside of his wrist an affectionate lick. Stiles probably had no idea the meaning behind it, but when Derek glanced over at Scott, he saw he was giving him a considering look. Stiles simply chuckled.

 

“Derek,” spoke Scott, then, “we did not know what happened. Why? ...you did not come home.”

 

Derek moved to Scott, pressing his muzzle into his stomach and letting Scott push hands through his fur. The hurt in Scott’s voice tore at Derek. He whined softly, pressing closer, trying to let Scott know that he had not abandoned him.

 

Stiles cleared his throat behind them and Derek stepped away from Scott.

 

“Everyone’ll have heard the gunshot,” said Stiles. “We must leave before more gendarmerie arrive!”

 

“Of course,” answered Scott. “Thank you. I’m Scott.”

 

“Stiles,” replied Stiles who must have been very worried about being caught to be so curt with Scott.

 

The three of them continued on, Stiles leading the way.

 

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“No,” was all Boyd said after opening the door to Stiles’ knocking. Which, Stiles thought, was unnecessarily rude, especially in front of Derek and Scott.

 

“ _Boyd_ ,” whined Stiles, quickly catching the door before Boyd could close it in their faces. “Please.”

 

“No,” said Boyd again, leaning out the door to growl his words directly at Stiles. “Miss Reyes is here, and your habits are becoming problematic.”

 

Undeterred, Stiles gave a small whoop and asked “Erica’s there?” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at Boyd before loudly whispered “well done, friend.”

 

With that, Stiles pushed past Boyd into the apartment, feeling only a little bit bad about it. Derek and Scott followed him, but they didn’t look quite as happy to do so; Derek even murmuring an apology of sorts to Boyd as they passed.

 

“Miss Reyes,” Stiles called. “It is I, your fairy tale prince! Come to rescue you from this fiend.”

 

“Hello Stiles,” said Erica a few beats later from where she was seated at the table, two mugs between her and Boyd’s empty chair. “You weren’t at dinner this evening or the one before.”

 

“I was detained,” said Stiles, throwing her a sly grin coupled with a wink, “slaying dragons and doing other dashing rogue things.”

 

“Of course,” said Erica, smirking. “And who are your handsome friends?”

 

“Dearest Erica, these are my...” Stiles faltered when he saw Boyd and Derek both looking at him with matching expressions of disdain. Scott just looked confused. Perhaps it was not the best time to flirt with the woman Boyd fancied. “This is Derek and Scott,” said Stiles, instead.

 

Erica rose from the table to greet them.

 

“Boyd, do you have anything to eat or drink?” asked Stiles while Derek and Scott made their own introductions with Erica. “I doubt Scott has had anything for some time.”

 

Boyd let out a long-suffering sigh.

 

“I will look for something for him,” he said.

 

“Gratitude, Boyd,” said Stiles. “I just need to step out for a few minutes. I shall return presently.”

 

Stiles made sure to allow Boyd’s look of annoyance to slide off his back. He was doing the man a favour, anyway. What would the neighbours say over him having Miss Erica alone with him in his home so late at night? It was best there were others there as well to keep things innocent between the two. Nodding to himself, Stiles stepped out of Boyd’s home, closing the door behind him.

 

He made his way through the dark, empty streets of the mostly-sleeping city with plans to return to his hotel room, pay the bill and bring all his things. After tomorrow, it would be best if he wasn’t easy to find. He didn’t know how, yet, but he did know that they would take down that mine and mill. Harris could not be allowed to profit by enslaving innocent people.

 

The streets were beginning to show small signs of life the closer he got to the hotel, which made sense as it was attached to a bar and it was the week’s end. Stiles passed a few random men walking with a slight sway. Each was on his way home after what seemed, for most of them, at least a pint too many. Stiles nearly stumbled into two mandrakes in embrace with their bodies pressed flush together in the shadows of the alley he was just stepping through, their arms around each other and bodies moving frantically. He quickly moved away from them, face heating. It had him wondering about Scott and Derek’s interaction with each other upon their reunion. He felt guilty of his knee-jerk response to their prior relationship, whatever it was, but he couldn’t seem to help that spike of jealously every time they so much as looked at each other.

 

Stiles pushed it down. There was no point in dwelling on it. It was inappropriate of him to want anything from Derek in their current situation. It was best to focus on their goal. When Stiles arrived, there was a group of four men in front of the hotel’s main door holding each other as they swayed and loudly sang some old drinking song. Without too much trouble, he managed to slip past them and in through the front door. There were a few people in the main room of the hotel, but they were much quieter than the four making the ruckus outside.

 

Stiles quickly climbed up the worn stairs to find his room just as he had left it two nights prior. Without wasting time, he quickly began to pack all his things back in the proper suitcase his father had lent him. Once all his clothes, his shaving kit, and his other belongings were packed away, he got to his papers, sketchbooks, and scrolls. He quickly but carefully placed them in his suitcase, books first so they wouldn’t smash the scrolls. When he picked up the most worn book, a little brown sketchbook, he gave pause. It was the book he had sketched in as more a hobby than anything. His father had been part of the Polish army all of Stiles’ life until he was recently given an injury that had sent him into an early retirement. Stiles had always feared for his father’s safety –especially after losing his mother to sickness of the brain. He coped with his fears through sketching out new armour and weapon concepts that could possibly help keep his father stronger than his opponent and, ultimately, safe.

 

He opened the book and began to page through it looking at the many sketches. They had started back when he was but eleven years old, and so many were outside the range of technology and science, but they became more sophisticated as they continued on. He paused at the page with the sketch of leather armour reinforced with metal that was made to just cover the shoulder and down the arm. It allowed for movement, but could be used as a shield should the wearer know to turn his shoulder into whatever was attacking him. On the top of the hand piece that fit the back of the wearer’s hand there was a spring-loaded knife. He touched fingertips to the old, smudged drawing and wondered to himself how difficult it would be to get the supplies together. It seemed something that Derek could benefit from wearing, though the man seemed to have his own knives in his fingertips and his skin could heal easily enough.

 

Stiles was just flipping through the book further to find something for himself when there was a rapping at his room’s door. He froze, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. Who could be at his door? Was it the gendarmerie? Had they figured out it was he who had freed both Derek and Scott? For a crazy second, he hoped it was his father having received his message and come to help. Of course, there was no way it could be, but for a moment, he hoped. It was more likely it was the gendarmerie come to arrest him. Stiles glanced around the room for an alternative escape. The rapping on the door came again.

 

Heart in his throat, Stiles got up and went to the door. He opened it and was stunned to find Miss Lydia Martin standing on the other side looking impatient and irritated.

 

“Mister Stilinski,” she said, disdain managing to come through those five syllables even as the lines around her eyes spoke of worry.

 

“Miss Martin,” said Stiles in response. It came out sounding embarrassingly breathless, but to be fair, he had been half expecting to have been dragged out of his room and handcuffed upon opening his door.

 

“I am not here as some sort of _female caller_ ,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “so you can close your gaping bone box and invite me in.”

 

Stiles closed his mouth with an audible click, nodding furiously and stepping aside to let her in. He closed the door behind her and turned to watch as she eyed his room with a raised eyebrow and turned up nose as though it smelled of sweat and piss. He hadn’t even been in there the last two days, so any unpleasant smells the room _did_ have were not his making.

 

“I’ve wandered into this rookery at this ungodly hour to speak with you about Mister Harris,” she said after finally turning back to regard him after her judgment of the hotel room was complete.

 

“Have a seat, Miss Martin,” Stiles managed with an enthusiastic nod.

 

Lydia raised her eyebrow again when it became apparent there was nowhere to sit but Stiles’ unmade bed. Stiles winced and quickly moved to pull the blanket up over the straw-filled mattress. Once he had done so, Lydia sat primly on the edge of the bed, her nose back to turning up.

 

“After your most uncalled for verbal attack this afternoon, I went back to the work yard and did some looking,” started Lydia without further preamble. “Suffice it to say, you were correct in your accusations, aside from your grouping me in with Mister Harris’ plotting.”

 

Stiles nodded, awkward as he had felt standing above the now seated Miss Martin, he was much too interested in what she might say next to worry about propriety.

 

“Harris has stolen my schematics for an altered voltaic pile that can store electricity,” said Miss Martin.

 

“That’s exactly what I was trying to get you and Mister Harris to look at for the past week!” he cut in, excitedly before he crossed the room to his mostly-packed suitcase. He quickly pulled all his scrolls back out to show Miss Martin his own schematic drawings. “I had come up with a way to turn the dam into a hydroelectric one and wanted him to alter the dam’s design accordingly.” Stiles handed the opened scroll to Miss Martin as he spoke. “Think of the electricity such a large dam could generate! Think of all the lives it could make easier! Think of—“

 

“Think of the money to be made,” cut in Miss Martin, darkly. “Mister Harris sure has.”

 

Stiles sobered, then.

 

“He plans on doing just what you’ve said, but keeping the generated electricity for himself. From what I can tell, he has plans to build a secret that he will power with this electricity while he lets the city believe they are the ones benefiting from the dam using the outdated technology of it,” said Miss Martin, angrily. “They must build their factories directly against the dam to actually benefit from it and so he has made king’s ransom from the resulting bidding war on the prime real estate. Every company in the city wanted to build on his land there. But, only four can fit.”

 

“Is it enough to finance his smelter mill?” asked Stiles.

 

“It is a lot,” answered Miss Martin, “but I truly doubt it is enough for that. Before he could possibly begin building a smelter mill, he would need a mine or a source for the ore, he would need an entire workforce of men for the labour, and he would need to host a few other fundraisers for the money. I don’t bel—“

 

“The mine and mill already exist,” cut in Stiles, unable to hold back.

 

“What,” she demanded sharply. “How could he possibly have built all that under everyone’s noses?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Stiles, shaking his head.

 

“No, I don’t believe you,” said Lydia. “I would have known. I would have noticed... and who are all the men who work for him there? Surely a sudden influx of people in the city would have been noted. How has he managed to get them all to keep quiet about this mill?”

 

“He’s using Romani slaves,” explained Stiles. “He has the gendarmerie, or at least some of them, under his thumb somehow and they’ve been arresting Romani under false pretenses and taking them to the camp to work. They almost have the entire mill built and work in the mine has begun. Soon, the smelting will begin.”

 

Lydia looked like she was going to be sick. Which Stiles figured was actually a good thing because it meant she believed him and that the truth was ugly enough that she wouldn’t go running back to Harris.

 

“How do you know all this?” she asked after a beat.

 

“I have seen it,” said Stiles.

 

“Then you must take me there,” demanded Lydia, rising to stand.

 

“We are going first thing in the morning,” said Stiles, excitement building in his chest. “We plan to shut it down and expose Harris for the cheat he is.”

 

“I don’t know who this ‘we’ is, you speak of, but if you’re the brains of the group, you’re all going to need my help,” said Lydia. She paused and a small grin pulled at one corner of her mouth. “And I happen to have access to a lot of dynamite.”

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

The sky was beginning to turn grey with the oncoming morning when Stiles finally made his way back up the stairs to Boyd’s front door. It had easily been the longest day of Stiles’ life and he felt he could barely set one foot before the other. Stiles tried to be quiet as he shut the door behind him, not wanting to disturb anyone, but it seemed Derek’s keen ears wouldn’t allow Stiles to enter unnoticed.

 

“Uh, hello,” whispered Stiles, freezing in his tracks when he caught Derek’s eyes on him from across the room. Erica must have set blankets out for them on the floor of the main room before turning in. Derek and Scott were lying side by side on a small, nest-like pile of blankets on the floor.

 

“Stiles,” said Derek. “I had expected you to return sooner.”

 

“Apologies,” said Stiles with a small grimace. “I received an unexpected guest while packing my things, It caused some delay.”

 

“A guest,” repeated Derek.

 

Stiles set his bags down in the corner of the room.

 

“Miss Lydia Martin,” said Stiles, sitting down on the chair near the door to take off his boots. “She is the apprentice of Mister Harris; the man we expect is behind the smelter mill.”

 

“The woman from the office,” said Derek with a frown. “The one you yelled at.”

 

“The very same,” agreed Stiles with a sheepish nod.

 

Stiles bit his lip wondering where he should bed down now that he had finished putting away his things and taking off his boots. Derek and Scott looked rather cosy lying right next to each other, and, though it caused a knot of jealousy to form in his stomach, Stiles did not wish to impose.

 

“Miss Reyes left out a blanket for you, as well,” said Derek, seeming to have understood Stiles’ dilemma.

 

“Thank you,” said Stiles when Derek gestured to it sitting folded on the table. He took it and laid down on the floor a good few metres away from Derek and Scott. It was not comfortable and he almost wished he had stayed at the hotel that night instead of checking out in the middle of it. Still, Stiles was tired enough that it was only moments of laying on the wooden floor softened only very slightly by the woolen blanket before he began to drift to sleep.

 

“Why did Miss Martin visit you?” asked Derek, voice sounding oddly meek thought tinged with some sort of accusation. Stiles was already half asleep, so it was probably just his foggy brain that interpreted Derek’s voice as sounding strange.

 

“Hmmm... does nah like... dynamite,” said Stiles eyes closed and tongue heavy with sleep.

 

There was deep silence for some time. Stiles was boneless with encroaching sleep.

 

“Stiles?” asked Derek.

 

“Yeah,” said Stiles after a long pause.

 

“Do you fancy Miss Martin?”

 

Stiles hummed, not really awake enough that the question really even registered. Sleep was caressing his head and drawing him in to its peaceful embrace. Stiles would better explain the new plan involving Lydia’s help come the morrow. For now, he just needed sleep.

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

Derek had had trouble falling back to sleep after Stiles had returned, but he must have done so eventually, because one moment he was laying next to Scott staring at the ceiling in the darkness and the next he was waking up to the quiet voices of Boyd, Erica and Scott.

 

“I had done nothing wrong, but the officers, they came for me,” spoke Scott. “They took me from my home. They put shackles on me in front of my mother.”

 

“They gave you no reason?” asked Erica sounding upset on Scott’s behalf.

 

“Words were said,” replied Scott. “It happened quickly. I was confused. Something was said about trespassing.”

 

“Trespassing,” scoffed Boyd. “That is not a crime that should warrant a one way ticket to Siberia.”

 

“Perhaps if he were trespassing in a king’s private chambers,” agreed Erika, nodding, “but not for stepping for on any land where you are from.”

 

“I am fortunate for Derek and Stiles,” said Scott, simply.

 

Derek rose, then, pushing the blankets aside and getting to his feet. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms behind his back before starting forward.

 

“We both are fortunate for Stiles,” said Derek.

 

He glanced over at where Stiles was still fast asleep on the floor. His limbs were thrown out to his sides in awkward angles that didn’t seem comfortable, his hair was a mussed mess, his mouth was wide open and he was snoring quietly. Still, his dark eyelashes fanned out over the tops of his cheeks and his lips remained an alluring pink even in sleep. Derek felt a twinge in his chest looking at the young man. When he looked back over at the three sitting around the table, he realized that his eyes must have fallen on Stiles for a bit longer than a glance. Miss Reyes was giving him a leering look and Scott had an ever so slight smile on his face. Boyd, though, was simply cutting a slice of bread, unaware or uncaring of how obvious Derek was being.

 

“Should we wake him?” asked Miss Reyes.

 

“If we can allow him time longer to sleep, I believe he may need it,” said Derek, shaking his head.

 

“In the mean time, come sit with us and eat,” said Boyd, gesturing to the empty side of the table.

 

Derek smiled stiffly and moved the fourth chair from where it stood next to the door over to the table so he could take a seat.

 

They sat at the table as the sun grew ever higher outside the window. Boyd spent some time explaining what he did for work as well as how he had come to know Stiles. Derek listened intently, wishing to better understand the situation he was currently in and enjoying Boyd’s explanation of his first impressions of Stiles. It was good to simply sit and relax while speaking with others after the whirlwind he had been thrown into over the past week.

“What of my family?” Derek finally asked when the conversation had dried up and silence had fallen over the room.

 

“They are well,” replied Scott. “Peter has been... difficult, but that is not unusual. Laura has been asking my mother to teach her medicine. She has been by many times about it.”

 

“The gendarmerie have not come after them because of me?” asked Derek, his heart aching with homesickness at Scott’s words.

 

“Sometimes an officer will ride by,” said Scott with a shrug, “but they have not done anything except build the fence.”

 

Derek nodded, remembering it when they had brought him to round up his horses.

 

“No one is allowed in the mountains,” said Derek. “I believe it is to keep us from finding the mine.”

 

“This mine,” spoke Boyd, nearly startling Derek for how quiet he had been moments before. “It’s Harris’ mine?”

 

Derek nodded.

 

“He’s building it close to your family?” he asked.

 

“Not far,” said Derek, nodding. “Perhaps it is half a day’s journey away.”

 

Boyd hummed thoughtfully.

 

“Cora has been restless,” spoke Scott, after a short pause.

 

“Restless,” repeated Derek.

 

“She spoke of searching for you,” said Scott looking apologetic.

 

“She does not know where to look,” answered Derek.

 

Scott nodded and Derek hoped that would be enough to keep Cora from leaving home. She was stubborn. Once she decided to do something, she would not be swayed, even if she knew her actions might be foolish. He smiled sadly to himself at the thought. He missed his sister, dearly.

 

Time passed and soon Stiles was groggily getting up from the floor and staggering over to where they were all seated at the table. Scott was quick to give up his chair for Stiles, smiling brightly and thanking him over and over for having saved him the night before. Derek couldn’t help but be captivated by how Stiles’ cheeks had pinked at Scott’s gushing.

 

“Apologies for having slept so late,” said Stiles while taking the last of the loaf of bread. “I stayed out much too late and the events of the past two days seem to have caught up with me.”

 

“What were you out doing when you left last night?” asked Miss Reyes, pouring Stiles a drink.

 

“I went to pack up my things and check out of the hotel,” said Stiles. “While I was there, however, Miss Martin came to see me.”

 

Derek noticed how Boyd perked at Stiles’ words. He was mostly a stoic man, but it was something Derek was used to as his father was much the same. So, it was simple to detect the minute changes in Boyd’s expression or body language. Obviously, from Boyd’s reaction, Miss Martin’s visiting Stiles was no small thing.

 

“I had spoken to her earlier about Mister Harris—more like yelled at her in public for being part of his evil schemes,” Stiles laughed sheepishly as he corrected himself. “In any case, she had not known about Mister Harris’ plans for the mine and mill. She looked into it, though, after my outburst, and was rather upset by what she found. She wishes to help us.”

 

“Miss Martin wishes to help you?” asked Boyd, looking outright shocked for once.

 

Derek wondered how much Boyd had actually been told, he thought back over the last while trying to remember if there had been a time where Stiles had actually laid out the facts for Boyd. Yes, Boyd had seen them through a lot of it, but it seemed he had done so out of his loyalty to his friendship to Stiles than anything else --a friendship that Derek had just learned was actually rather new.

 

“We believe your employer is building this mine in secret,” said Derek. “He is arresting my people to use them as slaves to work there. This was the fate of Scott and the fate of me, but for Stiles. I must thank you again for your help in this.”

 

Boyd nodded gruffly in response. Stiles cleared his throat as if Derek’s gratitude had made him feel uncomfortable. Perhaps Derek’s feelings for Stiles had shown through in his words. He decided to endeavor to remain silent so as to not make Stiles uncomfortable with unwanted advances.

 

“So, the tentative plan that Ly—Miss Martin and I came up with last night is to blow up the mine and surrounding area with dynamite,” explained Stiles. Derek frowned at the accidental familiarity in how Stiles spoke of the woman. “This will cease work and, if it doesn’t completely devastate the plans, it’ll at least slow them down for quite some time. The explosions will be loud enough to gain attention of the authorities and any within earshot. Though the mine is well-hidden in the forest, it is not, in fact, that far from the city. The explosions should be heard by many. Even if Harris has a good number of the local gendarmerie in his pocket, he can’t have everyone in on it. An investigation will undoubtedly result.”

 

“That sounds rather cut and dry,” commented Miss Reyes.

 

Stiles grinned in a manner that Derek thought not quite genuine; perhaps it was nerves.

 

“Less ways for it to go wrong, that way,” said Stiles with a small shrug.

 

Though he had planned to remain silent and just listen, something occurred to Derek in that moment that he had to voice.

 

“What of the Romani prisoners?” he asked. “Will they not be injured in such a blast?”

 

“Of course, we will clear everyone out, first,” said Stiles, nodding to Derek. “I do not wish to cause any casualties, if we can manage it. The point of getting rid of this mine and the mill is the many dangers involved with working at one. Should someone risk themselves to work in a mine, or take on the very real possibility of lead poisoning and injury in a smelter mill, they should do so by their own choice. And undoubtedly, this being a secret enterprise, I should expect no time has been spent ensuring safety measures enforced by our laws. Bringing me to the other reason this place must be shut down before it can begin; a secret such as this means all sorts of corruption and nefarious scheming. Should the income from this mill be to fund something legal, there would be no reason to hide its existence. It seems to me that there is an even greater plot afoot.”

 

Derek was struck, once again, with just how clever this young man was. It was a terribly attractive and somewhat intimidating trait.

 

“How will we get in to free the captives in the first place?” asked Boyd. “Can Miss Martin get us access to some guns?”

 

Derek noted how he said ‘we’. It was fortunate Stiles had a friend like him. It was fortunate that there existed men like Stiles and Boyd who would not shy away from righting something when they saw injustice.

 

“No need for guns,” said Stiles, shaking his head. “Like I said, I do not wish for casualties. The moment we bring in any sort of weapon, we up the chances of there being any as a direct result.”

 

“You don’t think the dynamite already puts us there?” asked Erica with a short laugh.

 

“You may need weapons,” spoke Derek, again. “The gendarmerie are armed and—”

 

“The gendarmerie are just men doing their job,” cut in Stiles, impassioned. “I do not want any casualties.”

 

“No,” argued Derek. “They are men with the ability to see, just as you have, when there is injustice. They are men with the ability to say no when asked to do something wrong.”

 

The room went silent at Derek’s words. It hadn’t been loud before, but now, it was as though the air in the room had been sucked out and no one could move or breathe. All they could do was stare; stare at Derek.

 

“They had the power to do something about it, but they chose to go along with the plan even when they can easily see they are asked to do wrong,” said Derek, softly. He cast his eyes down to the table feeling insecure, but no less adamant in his position.

 

The resulting silence stretched on for a few beats before Stiles finally broke it.

“You’re quite right, Derek,” said Stiles sincerely. His words allowed the tension to leak from Derek’s shoulders. “Still, I would rather not have any deaths on our hands if we can help it. Let’s try for stealth before brute force, yes?”

 

“Okay, so we sneak in, warn the Romani folk, and then explode the mine,” said Boyd in summary.

 

“Yes,” said Stiles, nodding. “And Miss Martin has a plan for how we will sneak in. She believes she can get a hold of some gendarmerie uniforms. We will arrive posing as gendarmerie officers who have recaptured Scott. They should be relieved enough not to ask too many questions.”

 

Derek looked to Scott.

 

“We will not surrender Scott to them,” said Stiles, quickly. “You don’t have to worry, Derek.”

 

“I...” started Derek, but he wasn’t certain of what he would say.

 

“I am glad to help in any way I can,” spoke Scott, quickly.

 

“Perfect,” said Stiles, nodding. Really, had Stiles and Scott met in a different way, Derek was sure they would have been fast friends. They had personalities that Derek thought could mesh well. Unfortunately, it seemed Stiles still did not like Scott. Derek could not figure out why. “So, we show up in gendarmerie uniform with Scott in tow. Boyd will take Scott to the mine as if putting him to work with the others. There, he will set up the explosives while Scott warns the people. I will head to the mill where others are still working on building it to warn everyone there. Derek will hide in the forest waiting for Boyd’s signal. Then, he will give a warning howl. Boyd will wait two minutes and then light the fuse.”

 

“Warning howl?” asked Boyd.

 

Derek froze.

 

“Yes, so that we all know to get the hell out of there,” said Stiles, simply.

 

Boyd looked suspicious, but let it go. Derek tried to make his relieved exhale a silent one.

 

“What will I do?” asked Erica.

 

“That brings me to the other side of our plan,” said Stiles, giving her a strange half-smile that was more grimace. “When Harris finds out that we’ve sabotaged his mine, he will know straightaway that an investigation will be underfoot. There is no doubt in my mind that he will quickly and effectively cover his tracks. It would, therefore, be prudent to find said tracks and safeguard them. The best time to do this would be during the commotion. Lydia plans to find whatever she can on site, but I already know there are plans in the engineer office at the work yard, and... I just so happen to have a key.”

 

Stiles grinned mischievously –his first real grin of the morning, really— and produced a key from his pocket. Erica grinned equally as impish and quickly plucked the key from Stiles’ fingers. Fortunate as Derek felt to be surrounded by these people who were so eager to help him, he was starting to wonder if perhaps they were a little _too_ eager.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

The next morning was a whirlwind of plans coming together.

 

The hardest part of their plan, Stiles assumed, was the beginning. They would have to get Scott out of the city without being recognized as the escaped Romani and this time they couldn’t simply alter his appearance. Boyd, Erica and Stiles had argued on that front over breakfast that morning until Derek had solemnly cut in asking if it would be so much worse to simply have two wolves at their sides. It was then that Stiles had to tamp down his own surprise in order to explain to a confused Boyd and Erica that the shapeshifter wolf-men of fairy tales actually existed.

 

An hour after their meal saw them meeting Lydia in the poorest part of the city where Derek and Stiles had travelled through only days prior on their way out of the city the first time. A horse-drawn carriage pulled up alongside them as Boyd and Stiles walked along the side of the street, a tall wolf at either of their sides. It pulled to stop and the door swung open to reveal Lydia inside.

 

“Well,” she said, grinning ever so slightly as though she were more excited than terrified for the day’s events. “Get in.”

 

“I’ll not have wolves in my carriage,” spoke the driver from atop, his ton snobbish and heavy with disdain.

 

“You mean _my_ carriage Mister Whittemore?” returned Lydia sharply. “You’re just the driver, afterall.”

 

Stiles watched as she gave a speculative look at wolf-Derek and realized with a start that he never actually explained to her about the shapeshifters.

 

“Did you bring clothes for them?” she asked Stiles, her eyes still on the wolves. Stiles nodded. “Mister Whittemore,” she said, then, turning her attention back to the driver with the upturned nose, “Your services are no longer needed today.”

 

“Excuse me?” answered the driver –Mister Whittemore.

 

“I’ll not need your services beyond here,” reiterated Lydia with a sharp smile. “Hand the reins to Mister Stilinski.”

 

Surprised and confused, Stiles quickly moved to the side of the carriage to take the reins from the driver at Lydia’s words. The driver jumped down from the top of the carriage and, with a snarl, gave up the reins. Stiles couldn’t help but grin in flabbergasted amusement as he watched the angry driver trudge away into the slums of the city, top hat and all.

 

“You’re a horseman, right Derek?” Stiles caught Lydia ask of the tall, black wolf. How she knew the wolves were Scott and Derek and, more specifically, that the bigger one was Derek was beyond Stiles. He decided to simply assume it was because the woman was a genius.

 

Stiles turned his attention back to the horse, pulling back awkwardly on the reins when it grew antsy. He had never driven a cart or carriage in his life and was feeling out of his depth just by holding the reins. A few long moments later, though, Derek emerged from the carriage human and dressed. Stiles was happy to give the reins up to Derek, offering them immediately, but Derek ignored the reins and instead walked around the carriage to approach the horse. He spoke lowly to it, petting its neck and then its face. It went still, ears perking, as though Derek were speaking its language. Stiles had a crazy momentary thought that maybe he was. Only then did Derek come take the reins from Stiles with a nod and strained smile. It made Stiles wonder, not for the first time in the past twenty four hours, if he would see Derek again after their plan was put into action.

 

Should they be successful or should they fail, Stiles found he most wanted to stay in Derek’s company. He gave Scott a guilty nod when he got into the carriage and sat down next to Lydia. Boyd and wolf-Scott sat across from them. He should not have such growing feelings for Derek, especially not if Derek already had Scott.

 

The carriage took them out of the city, Derek somehow knowing the way though he was not well acquainted with the streets and roads of the city. Stiles wondered if heightened memory was one of the strengths of Derek’s wolfman abilities. The road branched out in four directions and Stiles wouldn’t have remembered the way after only walking it once— and under stress, no less. They followed the road out of the city for some time, but eventually they would have to figure out where the secret trail that led to the mill laid. Of course, it was Lydia who figured it out and directed Derek through the carriage window of how to find it.

 

The secondary road, which was mostly just a trail of two packed wheel paths in the tall grass cleared of forest underbrush, connected right off the main road. Easy to get to as it was, it was actually hard to notice until one was right on top of it. Derek would probably have been able to sniff it out, eventually, but having Lydia constantly in the know was helpful. Stiles couldn’t help but stare at her in surprised awe every time she did almost anything. Were her words not always so biting and her body language a constant shout of ‘keep away’ and Stiles not already falling for Derek –well, he could see himself falling for Miss Lydia Martin. She would never reciprocate, that much was certain. So, it was fortunate that Stiles truly did not feel that way about her.

 

As they neared the mill, the air of the inside of the carriage grew tense. There was a high likelihood that their plans would fail, but even should they succeed, their actions that day would most definitely see them imprisoned. They still did not know how deep this plot ran or who else was involved. It was enough for Derek to know that his fellow Romani folk were being used, and it was enough for Stiles to know that they were being wrongfully accused and imprisoned to do it. To have Lydia game to blow the place to smithereens completely on the fly without days of research, though –well, that still seemed hard to believe. The only conclusion Stiles could draw was that there was something else motivating Miss Martin. For now, though, Stiles would simply be happy with her assistance.

 

“We draw close,” warned Derek.

 

“Alright,” said Lydia, moving to draw a bag out from under her seat. “Mister Boyd, Mister Stiles, you must change into uniforms, now. And you,” she said turning to Scott in wolf form, “you must turn back into yourself and get dressed, as well.”

 

All three men looked at her for a few beats, unmoving.

 

“Oh stop with your worries of propriety and your virtue,” she huffed. “We are headed to blow up an entire smelter mill, for heaven’s sakes.”

 

Stiles coughed to cover up his laughter as both men were instantly in action at Lydia’s words. Boyd grabbed his uniform from the bag before handing the bag to Stiles. How Lydia got her hands on the uniforms, Stiles probably didn’t want to know. Scott turned back into a human so he, too, could get dressed. Lydia pointedly turned in her seat to gaze out the window. Nerves feeling raw and stomach in his throat, Stiles quickly undressed and put on the second uniform. The uniform made it real; they really were going to try to take down an entire mine and mill. He wondered what his father, man of a uniform more respected than the one Stiles had just put on, would think of him. It was highly illegal to pose as an officer. Just as it was highly illegal to spring someone from jail or blow up an _entire mine and smelter mill_! Stiles took a deep shuddering breath; there was no going back, now.

 

When the carriage slowed to a halt in the clearing, they were ready. Boyd was out first, turning to help Lydia down from the carriage. Though she never really turned it off, she had her confident airs back on and turned all the way up. Chin raised, she took Boyd’s offered hand with an exuberance that Stiles thought safe to assume only she could pull off. When she was a few paces away and taking up everyone’s attentions, Scott and Stiles followed.

 

“Stiles,” hissed Derek lowly from atop the carriage.

 

Stiles paused to look up. Derek opened his mouth and closed it again as though he were not sure exactly what he wanted to say. The intensity of his expression caused the nervous twisting in Stiles’ gut to burst into butterflies instead. A myriad of different thoughts seemed to pass over his face; Stiles bit his lip waiting for Derek to decide on which one to voice.

 

“Thank you,” said Derek, finally.

 

It wasn’t what Stiles expected, but he didn’t have time to reply, so he gave Derek a solemn nod in return. He prodded Scott forward with mock hostility to join Boyd and Lydia a few paces away. Behind him, he heard the horses move the carriage forward, and he knew the rest of the plan had begun. Derek would take the carriage to the side of the clearing as if parking it, he’d attend the horses and wait for a moment where it seemed no one was looking and slip into the woods to shapeshift.

 

“...fortunate that I’m here.” Lydia was in the middle of a good reaming of a man in uniform who looked to be of a higher ranking. “If your men weren’t so insufferably _incompetent_ , maybe it wouldn’t take _Harris’ apprentice_ to recapture the ones that escape from you. “

 

“Apologies and gratitude, Miss Martin,” spoke the man smoothly with a slight bow of his head. Stiles was impressed with how smoothly he responded even when the pinch between his eyebrows spoke of his irritation with Lydia.

 

“Argent!” called out Harris’ familiar voice as he appeared from one of the out buildings just metres away. Stiles’ heart stopped. They hadn’t accounted for Harris to already be on site.

 

“Boyd,” spoke Lydia, sharply, “accompany the prisoner with these officers. I’m certain they can show you where to take him.” She obviously didn’t want Boyd recognized by Harris.

 

Boyd quickly complied, taking Scott by the elbow and followed after the two gendarmerie officers who had met them with their superior officer. Harris being there had thrown a wrench into the plan, but perhaps it could be salvaged before it all went to hell. Stiles shared a nervous look with Lydia as Harris approached.

 

“You _of all people_ should know we have much to prepare,” exclaimed Harris, glaring angrily at the officer, voice not lowering in decibel even though he was much closer, now. “What is th— Miss Martin! What are you doing here?” Harris asked in surprise. He looked immediately just as ill as Stiles felt.

 

“I could ask the same,” replied Lydia, straightening to look slightly taller. “Don’t you have a dam to build?”

 

Harris looked at a loss and Stiles wondered if he should slip away before the man recognized him. He didn’t want to leave Lydia, but it would do no good for them both to be found out. Still, he couldn’t just abandon her.

 

“I had an errand,” replied Harris.

 

Under different circumstances, Stiles was certain he would have laughed at how cowed Harris looked under Lydia’s scrutiny. Certainly, a man of Harris’ position and esteem and who had what seemed an entire army at his beck and call, would not be so easily put out at being caught by one woman.

 

“I, too, had an errand,” said Lydia, the severity of her voice rising as she spoke each word. “You stole my plans. You stole them and turned what could have been a safer, more versatile and economic source of energy into _this_. A smelter mill, _Adrian?_ Really? That is the _polar opposite_ of what we said of our dreams for this breakthrough.”

 

And there it was; the reason for Lydia’s sudden and lethal desire to help them take down Mister Harris. They were lovers. Stiles nearly felt dizzy with the revelation.

 

“Miss Martin,” spoke Harris, glancing around almost wildly, “I believe it pertinent that we go somewhere more private for the rest of this discussion. There is— hey, you’re that kid.”

 

Stiles froze, heart suddenly hammering its way up his throat. Well, too late now, then. Stiles turned to Lydia for direction while Harris looked between the two of them, but her face gave away nothing.

 

“I see,” said Harris, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve moved on to a newer edition. Probably not as good, and will definitely not be able to give you the status nor—“

 

“Sir,” interrupted the gendarmerie officer, lowly. “Perhaps you wish to use the office to finish your discussion, as you had said?”

 

“Hmm,” answered Harris, thoughtful. “I think I’d prefer to give Miss Martin a tour of the facility now that she is here. As she said, it is partly with her help that this mill comes to be. This man, however, is an imposter and should be placed in irons.”

 

The officer turned sharply to give Stiles narrowed-eyed once over.

 

“Were there any others who arrived with them?” Harris asked.

 

The officer paused but only for a split second as if considering. Stiles mentally pleaded with him not to speak of Boyd or Scott. Of course, he would, but it didn’t mean Stiles couldn’t do some mental pleading.

 

“None that I saw,” he replied.

 

His answer was so shocking that Stiles almost gave it away by allowing his jaw to drop open. Somehow, he managed to hide his surprise.

 

“Good,” said Harris before turning to leave. “Come with me, Miss Martin, I have much to show you.”

 

 

 

\----------------

 

Hidden just within the trees, Derek circled the clearing on all fours. Boyd was nearly to the mouth of mine with Scott at his side. Stiles and Miss Lydia were not moving to their planned positions, though, instead they were speaking with a slim man in a suit and a gendarmerie officer who looked to be of higher rank than the others. They had said things would probably deviate from the set plan, but this was much sooner than expected. Derek paused to listen in.

 

“What shall I do with the imposter, sir?” asked the gendarmerie officer. “I have no cuffs at this time.”

 

“Bring him along for the time being,” said the man in the suit. “And be discreet, I can’t have the sight of him stirring up trouble. Your father is on his way and everything must be perfect.”

 

Anxiety tightened Derek’s throat when he realized Stiles had been found out. He looked back up to the mine. Boyd and Scott had disappeared inside. Boyd would be setting up dynamite and Scott would be getting all the Romani folk out. When Boyd was ready to light the dynamite, he would give the signal from the mouth of the mine and Derek would howl a warning. They would have two minutes to clear out and Boyd would light the dynamite and run. The problem with their plan, now, was that with Stiles caught, there was no one to clear the mill.

 

Heart pounding with nerves, Derek watched as the man in the suit walked Lydia, her arm in his, toward one of the smaller buildings and the gendarmerie followed with Stiles at his side. Had Lydia double-crossed them? No, the stiffness in her gait told a different story than her arm linked with the man’s did. The man in the suit had taken them both prisoner, he just didn’t want it to look that way.

 

Derek hated that he was the one left to do the thinking. He was not clever like Stiles and Miss Martin. Boyd would certainly appear shortly and it was up to Derek to howl. If he didn’t, Boyd wouldn’t light the dynamite. If he did, Boyd would. Should he rush in and save Miss Martin and Stiles? He had been told not to reveal himself unless it was an emergency. Was this an emergency? Should he circle round to the other side of the clearing and run up to the mine himself? He could tell Boyd what happened and perhaps the man could give him new orders. Or maybe he could clear out the mill himself and everything else could still go as planned. Surely, Stiles and Miss Martin would simply tell their captors that the mine was going to blow up once they heard the howl. Derek was undecided and he was running out of time. He should just make a decision and act. Still, he didn’t know what to do. Unbidden, a whine escaped his throat.

 

\----------------

 

“Your father?” hissed Stiles at the gendarmerie officer.

 

The officer didn’t respond with words, instead he grabbed him by the collar and roughly directed him forward. They entered a windowless outbuilding behind Lydia and Harris. It was cool inside compared to the hot air outside. It was _strangely_ cool though, as if it was storage for ice. Stiles squinted in the dim lighting to see steps leading down through the floor.

 

“What are you trying to do, Miss Martin?” asked Harris through clenched teeth once the door was shut. “Chris, bind the boy’s hands,” he commanded turning to the officer. Stiles cursed under his breath.

 

“I wanted to see what you’d built without including me,” replied Lydia without so much as a waver in her voice. She seemed uncaring of the situation they were in, her chin raised and a slight quirk to her lips.

 

The gendarmerie officer whose first name was supposedly Chris –and the fact that Mister Harris was on a first name basis with him hadn’t slipped Stiles’ notice, either— grabbed rope from a table against the wall and pulled Stiles’ arms behind his back so he could tie them.

 

“Easy on the arms,” hissed Stiles.

 

“Yes, well, if you were wanting a grand tour, you should have chosen a better day,” spoke Harris to Lydia while grabbing a lantern from a shelf near the stairs and lighting it. “I have an esteemed visitor on his way and much to prepare for his arrival.”

 

“So you’ve said,” replied Lydia, raising her head so she could look down her nose at Harris. “I _had_ wondered where you found the income to fund something like this and how someone like you could possibly have had the sway to get the royal army under your thumb. I should have known it was Gerard Argent.”

 

“Someone like me,” growled Harris lowly, latching on to the most degrading part of her spiel. Stiles, on the other hand, blinked owlishly over at the gendarmerie officer named Chris. He was Chris _Argent_ , head of the gendarmerie in the area. It was all beginning to make so much sense.

 

“Yes, you have a higher than average intellect and an ever-growing line of engineering feats behind you,” said Lydia, “but don’t for one moment think yourself clever. You’re a fake, Adrian. You would be nowhere were it not for the apprentices and other brilliant minds you’ve used to your advantage. And when it comes to actual power, you are an insect. How you even managed to get Gerald Argent to look at you twice is a mystery to me.”

 

“That’s quite enough,” hissed Harris, angrily. Even in the low light, Stiles could see the vein at the man’s temple begin to throb in his fury.

 

Lydia let out a soft yelp when Harris grabbed her roughly and pushed her toward the stairs. Stiles instinctively leaped forward to save her, but was held back by the gendarmerie’s hold on his collar. Fortunately, Lydia managed to keep her feet under her on the steps and didn’t take a tumble. Harris followed her down the stairs, holding the lantern out so he could see each step.

 

The stairs led them underground to a large cavern that didn’t look like it could possibly have been completely made by man. It looked like it had been a pre-existing cave that was furthered hollowed out. It was huge. Stiles was certain that if he called out, his voice would bounce around the dome shaped cave with a great echo. There were large transformers and more altered Voltaic Piles on either side of the cavern and in the middle ran an underground river. There were large waterwheels turning in it. Across the cavern was another set of stairs leading back up. Stiles guessed that they led to the mill building. He needed to get there so he could complete his task as planned. He needed to get everyone out of the mill. Surely, Boyd would have set up the dynamite by then.

 

A bone-chilling thought came over him in that moment; had Derek already let out his warning howl and they being underground had not heard it? Stiles looked over at Lydia. She was the smartest of them all, perhaps she had a plan. He managed to catch her eye and she simply shook her head at him. What did she mean? Did she mean she didn’t have a new plan? No, how would she have known that’s what he was thinking right that moment? Perhaps she had meant for him not to try anything. Perhaps she had a plan in the works. Augh, Stiles didn’t know what to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

“This is the underbelly of my mill,” said Harris to Lydia as they reached the bottom steps of the staircase. “This is the powerhouse.”

 

Stiles cursed under his breath as he took in the room. It would have undoubtedly been the better spot to place the dynamite.

 

“You must be making a lot of money from the endeavor to risk your entire career over it,” said Lydia.

 

Harris hung the lantern on a hook near the closest transformers.

 

“This can only build my career, Miss Martin,” he replied condescendingly. “Perhaps you want in on it?”

 

“How many Romani men have you kidnapped to work in your mill?” snapped Stiles, though he directed it at Chris instead of Mr Harris. After seeing Chris purposely lie to Harris about Boyd and Scott, Stiles figured he might have an in with him.

 

“And how many of them will end up deadly ill with lead poisoning before the first year is through?” added Lydia, though Harris still have her complete attention.

 

“Ah, perhaps not, then,” said Harris with a put upon sigh. He turned to the gendarmerie officer while pulling a pistol from inside his suit jacket. “This is a good spot for them. Tie them here so we can get on with our plans.”

 

The gendarmerie officer pushed Stiles toward the closest support beam and pushed him to the cold, stone floor. Lydia was pushed down behind him.

 

“Adrian, don’t...” said Lydia.

 

“Tie them to the post,” commanded Harris. “I have things to attend to and this has been most distracting.”

 

He waved his gun around while he spoke. It was off-putting to say the least. Stiles kept wincing expecting him to accidently shoot. A gun just didn’t look at home in the engineer’s hand. The officer found a length of rope and tied both Lydia and Stiles’ wrists to the post behind their backs.

 

“Apologies Miss Lydia,” spoke the officer under his breath. “At least you will be safe here for the time being.”

 

“Not really,” hissed Stiles. “The entire place is about to explode.”

 

“What,” asked Harris, sharply, obviously having overheard.

 

Stiles couldn’t see him past the officer. The shocked dread on the officer’s face, though, was view enough.

 

“How long do we have?” asked the officer.

 

“We are not certain,” said Lydia. “We were supposed to be listening for the warning signal, but you’ve brought us underground.”

 

“Damnation,” exclaimed Harris, going in close to Lydia. “What have you done?”

 

“Saved a whole hell of a lot of Romani,” spat Stiles, hoping to get Harris’ attention off Lydia.

 

“Shut your bone box, you imbecile!” exclaimed Harris, turning to Stiles and practically spitting his words into Stiles’ face. “There’s more at stake here than a few worthless Romani, boy!”

 

“Yes, like your life,” said Lydia. “The dynamite should have been lit by now, you probably only have minutes.”

 

Harris turned back to Lydia and a sharp slap echoed through the cold cavern. Stiles winced.

 

“How could you do this to me?” exclaimed Harris.

 

Lydia didn’t respond.

 

“Where is the dynamite?” asked Harris. Stiles felt Lydia shudder behind him. He tried to look over his shoulder. “Where is it!?”

 

“Sir,” spoke Chris. “Perhaps we—“

 

“Shut up!” exclaimed Harris. “Lydia,” he spoke, “where is the dynamite?”

 

“You’ll find its source soon enough when it blows,” she replied.

 

Another slap echoed through the cavern. This time it was followed by a sharp intake of breath on Lydia’s part. Anger was swelling up inside Stiles. How dare that pig of a man slap Miss Lydia Martin!?

 

“Sir,” spoke Chris, again. “If they are speaking the truth, we should go.”

 

“I think you’ll find, _officer_ , that though your father is the benefactor here, I am still the one in charge,” spat Harris.

 

It was then that a large crash sounded from above. The entire room thundered with it and Stiles shoved his head down between his knees thinking it was the mine exploding. Small rocks fell from the walls, but nothing else happened.

 

“What was that?” hissed Harris. When no answer came, he shouted it. “What was that!”

 

“You seem to be under a lot of stress,” said Stiles, smartly. “Perhaps you should take a vacation.”

 

He winced when he saw the vein at Harris’ temple bulge further, expecting to receive a slap for his words. When none was forthcoming, he decided to push his luck.

 

“I see you prefer to hit women,” he spoke.

 

Harris raised a hand to slap him except it was the hand the gun was still clenched in. _Oh wonderful, a good pistol whipping was just what the situation needed_. Stiles winced and ducked down. The hit never came, however. Instead, the door across the room banged open and a rabid wolf jumped down the steps, hackles up, teeth bared and eyes flashing bright blue.

 

Harris staggered away from Stiles in surprise, raising his gun and shooting at the wolf.

 

“No,” exclaimed Stiles, pulling at the ropes at his wrists.

 

The wolf jumped down the rest of the steps and bounded across the cavern. Harris took another three shots, but missed every time. The wolf was too fast.

 

“Run,” Lydia hissed at Chris.

 

Instead, of listening to her, Chris pulled his own gun and shot at the wolf. The bullet hit him the shoulder causing him to go down and tumble.

 

“Derek!” yelled Stiles, pulling at his binds harder.

 

The wolf regained his footing almost instantly, though. He charged Chris while Chris shot at him a few times more. Each bullet found its mark, disappearing into his dark pelt. Stiles felt each one like a kick to his gut. Would Derek survive this?

 

Milliseconds passed in slow motion, but Derek got Chris to the floor and was about to tear his throat out when Lydia called for him to stop. Stiles wasn’t really paying attention, more concerned with the sticky, deep red substance oozing from Derek’s fur than the situation.

 

“Don’t kill him, Derek,” pleaded Lydia.

 

Derek growled. His large paws still pressing Chris to the floor.

 

“Chris,” said Lydia, “stay down.”

 

Chris nodded weakly. Derek let out a huff and got off him, at that.

 

“Derek, our ropes,” commanded Lydia.

 

Derek stood on his hind legs and turned human as he stepped toward them. It was surreal to watch. He untied them, his eyes constantly glancing back to Chris who, true to his word, stayed on the ground where Derek had knocked him down.

 

“Derek,” said Stiles, plaintively. Once his hands were free, he reached to touch Derek’s shoulder where the bullet hole was still oozing and much easier to see now that it wasn’t obstructed by black, thick fur.

 

“It’ll heal,” said Derek, lowly. His voice sounded deep and gravelly, Stiles figured it was from having just shifted from his wolf form.

 

“Has the dynamite been lit?” asked Lydia.

 

“Just now,” replied Derek. “We must go.”

 

“The mill?” asked Stiles, dread grabbing at his stomach as he thought of the task he hadn’t fulfilled.

 

“Most fled at the wolf,” replied Derek. “We will leave that way to make sure.”

 

“Good,” said Lydia with a quick nod. She was on her feet and dusting herself off. “Chris, come with us or perish.”

 

“Wait, where’s Harris?” asked Stiles.

 

Everyone looked around. The man had escaped when Derek was under fire from Chris.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Let him die with his mill,” said Lydia lowly, her voice murderous. The red welt on the side of her face made Stiles want to agree with her.

 

“There’s no time to dither,” said Stiles, instead.

 

They ran toward the mill’s steps, Derek falling back into his wolf form as he ran. Stiles would need to see him do that at least one hundred times more and in better circumstances where he would have ample time to better observe.

 

“How long was the fuse?” panted Chris as they ran up the stairs.

 

“We would have four minutes from the moment it was lit until the brunt of the explosives are reached,” answered Lydia.

 

Stiles stumbled through the open door at the top of the stairs to find the mill still full of workers. They had been disturbed like an anthill kicked, but they had not yet vacated.

 

“Dynamite!” yelled Stiles. “Run for your lives!”

 

Movement in the mill came to a standstill for a brief moment, but soon after, many voices sounded all at once. Words were being spoken in another language, but the workers were dropping their things and fleeing for the exits, so Stiles figured he got his point across.

 

Just then a loud explosion shook the earth. Stiles lost his footing but Derek was beside him in a flash to keep him from falling. The room was burning hot as one of the furnaces had been started even while the other half of the mill was still under construction. Hissing sizzling sounds were stirring up from its depths.

 

“That was the first one,” said Lydia. “There will be others and within two minutes, there will be the largest.”

 

“Let’s go!” exclaimed Stiles.

 

They raced through the swarming bodies of Romani and gendarmerie men making for the doors. Another explosion, this time bigger and louder, rocked the floor. The vibrations had the gigantic, smelter vat hanging from the rafters by metal arms and chains came crashing down, spilling liquid metal across the floor. The metal was orange-yellow in its extreme heat, spurting forth like magma erupting from a volcano. Stiles grabbed Lydia’s arm and pulled her out of the way as the liquid metal splashed in a burning spray across the room. Derek let out a yelp as droplets of the spray hit him with a stomach curdling hiss. He didn’t falter, just kept running. They made it to the large open door across the large mill and were just slipping through when a shout reached their ears.

 

“You’ve ruined me,” screamed Harris. “You’ve ruined everything!”

 

Stiles turned in time to see Harris standing in the middle of the mill with a Romani girl in workers rags held in his clutches and a knife blade pressed against her throat. Derek slid to a halt and turned with a wild yelp. He twisted around to run back into the mill.

 

“Derek!” yelled Stiles in both terror and confusion. At the same time, Derek called out “Cora!”

 

Stiles tumbled over his own legs in his haste to reach Derek and stop him from going back in, but Lydia was faster and grabbed Stiles, instead.

 

“Stiles,” she yelled, “we only have seconds!”

 

“Derek!” called Stiles.

 

“We have to go!” Lydia yelled and pulled Stiles backward. “Stiles, please!”

 

Stiles got to his feet as another explosion shook the earth and raced after her, not glancing back because he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave should he look back. Tears were filling his eyes and making it hard to focus. Outside the mill was nothing but movement. People shouting and lost in the confusion. Stiles grabbed the arm of an elderly man standing alone in the fray, and directed him to the forest line.

 

“Come on!” he shouted as they passed a few other people simply standing in the midst of all the movement.

 

He directed them all to the forest line.

 

“You are closer to home than you think,” he shouted to them as they made it into the trees. “Run home! Find your families!”

 

He gave the elderly man a gentle push in the direction he remembered Derek pointing out that his own home was. Stiles didn’t know if it was just the direction of Derek’s home, or the majority of the local Romani community, but it was a good enough direction to send the people. They needed to leave in the chaos or who knows what would happen to them when more gendarmerie arrived to deal with the situation.

 

Stiles turned back to the clearing, eyes scanning the dispersing crowd. Had Derek come out? Where was Lydia, now? Where were Boyd and Scott? He ran forward when he saw a young man, a boy, really, fall and become nearly trampled by a group of gendarmerie running from one of the outbuildings. Stiles tripped over a fallen log in his haste and fell face down in the underbrush of the edge of the forest. It was then that the largest of the explosions erupted. It was like nothing Stiles had ever felt before. He stayed down while the very earth shook as if it would come right apart and turn to dust. People were screaming. More booms followed the largest one and Stiles was left wondering if he was hearing echoes in his head or if more explosions were actually following. Then everything went quiet.

 

Stiles staggered to his feet and found none of the buildings in the clearing were left completely untouched. The mill was no longer standing. The face of the mine had crumpled and completely changed in shape. Most of the furthest buildings from the mine were still standing, but not undamaged. Most of the people had made it out of the clearing in time, but some were lying on the ground. Stiles rubbed the back of his hand across his face, it coming away bright red from his nose bleeding. He ignored it and ran into the clearing. He helped an injured man to his feet and, with his arm over Stiles’ shoulders, helped him limp to the forest edge. There could be more explosions, or a rock slide, or something. They must continue to evacuate.

 

Stiles glanced over at what was left of the mill, hoping to see movement –hoping to see Derek come staggering out, probably hurt, but fortunately alive. No one came out of the rubble. Stiles felt tears in his eyes; they ran freely down his face and joining the blood still pouring from his nostrils. He took the injured man and handed him over to two other Romani men waiting in the trees. They helped the man continue on. Stiles turned back to the mess of the clearing.

 

He spotted Scott helping some other workers from under fallen boards near one of the outbuildings and ran to help him.

 

“Where’s Derek?” asked Scott while helping a man to his feet.

 

“The mill,” said Stiles, surprised he even had voice left.

 

Scott paused and looked in that direction. His face twisted in despair. Stiles’ heart twisted painfully in his chest. He quickly went back to moving more broken boards.

 

“Is anyone else here?” he called out.

 

A muffled voice came to him from below the boards. Stiles quickly tossed more to the side, uncaring if he tore his hands on the splintered wood. This had not gone as planned. Yes, the mine and mill were destroyed, but not all of the people had been safely evacuated when it happened. Harris hadn’t been back in the city where Erica could have approached him as she was set to do. And Derek... _Derek_. Stiles wiped the back of his hand over his face wretchedly as tears threatened to flood his eyes.

 

He pulled more rubble to the side and suddenly uncovered a locked trap door.

 

“Hello?” he called out, again.

 

The muffled voice answered immediately. Someone was locked down there!

 

“Scott!” called Stiles.

 

Scott bounded to his side within seconds.

 

“We have to open this, someone’s down there!” exclaimed Stiles.

 

Scott grabbed hold of the lock and pulled at it. Stiles would have considered it idiotic had he not known Scott was also a wolfman and possessed an amount of strength Stiles had yet to know the limits of. The lock wouldn’t budge, though, so perhaps the limit had already been found. The muffled voice below sounded again, and Stiles picked up a piece of wood and started battering on the trap door instead. Scott, seeing what Stiles was doing, started bashing the heel of his boot against it repetitively.

 

“Stand back!” called Stiles as the wood began to splinter.

 

Soon they broke through the wood of the trap door and Stiles threw the piece of wood to the side. Scott grabbed hold of the wood and wrenched what was left of it back. It cracked loudly and gave. Stiles gasped when he saw who was on the other side.

 

“Derek!”

 

“Help her,” said Derek, lifting the girl up through the large hole in the trap door. Stiles fell to his knees and helped direct her through, Scott putting his arms under her shoulders to reef her out the rest of the way. He gently laid her down on the ground while Stiles reached a hand down through the opening. Derek took hold of it and Stiles helped pull him up through. They both fell to the ground, panting from the strenuous work.

 

“You’re alive,” breathed Stiles.

 

“As are you,” replied Derek lifting a hand is if he were going to touch Stiles’ face, but quickly dropping it and looking away. “Cora,” he called, “are you okay?”

 

The girl crawled over the grass to be closer to him. Derek hugged her tight mindless of his nudity. Stiles couldn’t help but blush despite the dire situation.

 

“I am, now,” she said hugging him back.

 

A cloak dropped down beside Derek, causing Stiles to look up and see Boyd grimace-smiling at them.

 

“Put this on, Derek,” said Boyd. “You look like a Shivering Jemmy.”

 

“Boyd,” breathed Stiles. “Where’s Lydia?”

 

“Fetching the carriage with Officer Argent,” answered Boyd.

 

Suddenly a horn sounded at the opposite side of the clearing and they all looked up to find a small army enter the clearing on horseback.

 

“Scott,” said Derek, letting the girl to her feet, “take Cora home. Now.”

 

“What about you?” asked Scott while the girl, Cora, exclaimed “Derek! I’ve come all this way to fi—“

 

“Now,” growled Derek, his eyes flashing blue.

 

Stiles didn’t wince, but it was a close thing. Scott did, though, and quickly helped Cora up and, with one last look at Derek and a nod at Stiles, he ran for the trees pulling Cora at his side.

 

Stiles saw Lydia approach the officers on foot.

 

“Thank you, Stiles,” said Derek, and Stiles turned his attention back to Derek who was now, sort-of covering himself with the cloak. It helped, but the nudity was still rather distracting.

 

“For what?” asked Stiles.

 

Derek gestured to the mess about them. Stiles laughed despite himself.

 

“Yeah,” he said, “any time you need something blown up and plans completely gone awry, just let me know.”

 

“It is finished,” said Derek lowly, ignoring Stiles’ awful attempt at humour. Stiles glanced back at Lydia in the distance, wondering what she was saying to the small army of officers. Would she be able to talk them out of this or should he and Derek be making a run for it? “Now I will return to my family and you can marry your Miss Martin.”

 

That caught Stiles’ attention.

 

“What?”

 

“You are clever, she is clever, you will have many clever children,” said Derek looking heartbroken.

 

“WHAT!?” exclaimed Stiles.

 

“It is the way of things,” said Derek, looking down at his hands and shrugging.

 

“Yeah, I can see how you’d think we were planning on running off and getting married what with all the yelling she does at me and the utter condescension in her eyes every time she looks at me,” said Stiles around a hysterical laugh. “No, I’ll go back to being alone, I’m sure, and you... you’ll have your Scott and that whoever that girl was...”

 

“My sister, Cora,” said Derek.

 

“Ah, that makes sense,” said Stiles, nodding.

 

“Stiles,” said Derek, then, “Scott is... my cousin.”

 

“Oh, that’s... wait. He’s your cousin?”

 

“Yes, I look out for him when he was bitten by my mad uncle,” said Derek.

 

“Bitten,” said Stiles. “Like turned into a wolfman?”

 

Derek nodded.

 

“So, he’s n— you two aren’t?”

 

Derek shook his head, a hopeful half-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Stiles had never seen an expression like that before.

 

“And you have no interest in Miss Martin?” asked Derek.

 

“There’s only one person I’m interested in,” said Stiles, the hope in his chest was growing, warm and fluttering.

 

A real, actual smile crossed Derek’s face then. Stiles had never seen anything so amazing. He crawled forward across the ground, pulled by that beautiful smile on Derek’s beautiful face. Tentatively, he placed his hand over Derek’s where it was braced on the ground. Derek leaned forward, lifting his other hand to touch gently at Stiles’ face.

 

“Uh, gentlemen?” interrupted Boyd.

 

Stiles glanced up, about to berate Boyd for interrupting their moment when he saw what Boyd was looking at. Lydia was pointing at them and the gendarmerie officers were starting forward.

 

“That she-devil!” hissed Stiles, jumping to his feet. “She’s saving herself and throwing us to the wolves! ...err, sorry, Derek.”

 

“To the forest! We must run!!” exclaimed Derek, grabbing Stiles’ hand.

 

Boyd made to run with them, but Stiles stopped him.

 

“You’re still in uniform, just point them in our direction when they pass you by,” said Stiles. There was no reason for Boyd to become an outlaw, too.

 

Holding tightly to Derek’s hand, Stiles ran with him into the forest. They heard shouts sounding behind them, but neither looked back. Weary as he was, Stiles ran as fast as his feet would carry him. With his hand in Derek’s, he didn’t fear falling, just ran blindly following where he was directed. Shots rang out behind them, but none found its mark. And so they ran.

 

\----------------

 

It was five days later that Stiles knocked on the familiar door of Boyd’s home. It was the middle of the night, as was beginning to be the expected time of his unexpected visits. They had to wait for a while before the door finally cracked open.

 

“Why do they always come here,” groaned Boyd upon seeing them.

 

Stiles grinned brightly.

 

“Because of how we love you so, Vernon Boyd,” he whined brightly.

 

“Shut up and come inside,” grumbled Boyd, pushing the door wide. “Hello Derek.”

 

“Hello Boyd,” answered Derek. “Apologies for the late hour.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, smiling, and lead the way further into Boyd’s home. Erica was seated at the table, a candle burning low in its middle. She was wrapped in a blanket and looking barely awake.

 

“How nice of you to come calling, Stiles,” she said snarkily.

 

“I see you have made yourself at home here, Miss Reyes,” said Stiles grinning knowingly.

 

She glared at him.

 

“It’ll be Misses Boyd soon enough,” she said. “So don’t you start.”

 

“Congratulations,” said Derek.

 

“Thank you, Derek,” she said turning a bright smile to Derek and getting up from her seat. “I’m sure you must be hungry, let me get you something to eat.”

 

Stiles made a squeak of mock offense.

 

“How come everyone likes you and not me?” he pouted.

 

Derek smiled warmly and took Stiles’ hand, pulling him close to kiss his nose.

 

“I like you,” he said lowly.

 

Stiles felt warmth fill his face and he leaned into Derek.

 

“Good,” he said feeling tongue-tied. “That’s... good.”

 

“Where have you been hiding?” asked Boyd, resolutely ignoring the new development.

 

“In the forests. We went back to Derek’s family to make sure everyone was safe,” said Stiles. “We might have torn out some of the fence the gendarmerie put in to keep folks away from the mountains while we were there.”

 

“Of course,” said Boyd, dryly.

 

“We’ve come for my things,” said Stiles. “I have this idea...”

 

“That sounds ominous,” said Erica, coming back into the room with a plate of bread and meat.

 

“Well, we’re already outlaws,” said Stiles, sitting down at the table and grabbing the knife to cut himself a slice of bread while Erica directed Derek who was still standing politely to do the same. “I figure, why not be vigilante heroes?”

 

“This isn’t a penny novel, Stiles,” said Boyd, warningly. “This is real life.”

 

“There is still much injustice in the lives of the Romani and other people as well,” said Derek.

 

“You’re going along with this?” asked Boyd disbelieving.

 

“Hey, you helped blow up a mine and mill,” pointed out Stiles, his mouth full.

 

“I like it,” said Erica thoughtfully. “It sounds sexy.”

 

“Hell yeah, it’ll be sexy!” said Stiles, grinning.

 

“You should have disguises,” said Erica.

 

“I’m thinking a cape,” said Stiles, nodding.

 

“I have just the thing!” said Erica, leaving the room.

 

Stiles took another large bite of his bread.

 

“Stiles believes that this Gerard Argent has more plots than just the smelter mill,” said Derek.

 

Stiles nodded.

 

“Yes,” said Boyd, “Erica and I have been in contact with your father.”

 

Stiles paused, heart ratcheting up in his chest.

 

“My father?” he asked, weakly. Derek placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“He arrived yesterday morning,” said Boyd, nodding. “He is partnering up with Chris Argent who has, for _completely unrelated_ reasons, recently been written out of Gerald Argent’s will. They are working to uncover the corruption in the legal system here.”

 

“Chris Argent,” grumbled Stiles.

 

“Your father, though a military man in Poland, holds very little status here,” said Boyd, smartly. “He needs Chris Argent’s help to get access to much of the places and information needed for his investigation.”

 

Stiles let out a sigh of assent.

 

“So, Erica provided him with all the papers, the schematics?” asked Stiles.

 

Boyd nodded.

 

“He also gave us a note to give to you,” he said, getting up to get the paper from his desk.

 

“Thank you,” said Stiles, grabbing it excitedly but then taking a moment to open it more reverently. It was written in his father’s familiar scrawl and the nostalgia of that familiar writing raised a lump in Stiles’ throat. He blinked a few times to hold any rogue tears at bay and began to read. His chest clenched at the words and he sucked in a ragged breath.

 

“Stiles?” asked Derek, sounding worried.

 

“He’s proud of me,” whispered Stiles before looking up through wet eyes to Derek. He smiled miserably at Derek and leaned in to his touch. “He says the plot seems to run thicker than just this mill and there is much to look into. He also says I’m a complete idiot and he’s proud of me,” said Stiles, laughing wetly.

 

“So, you _are_ heroes,” said Boyd. Stiles looked across the table where he was reseated and saw a small smile on his friend’s face. “Your father’s pride decrees it.”

 

“Yeah,” chuckled Stiles, nodding.

 

“Yet, Stiles and I remain outlaws,” added Derek, wryly.

 

“So, hey, might as well embrace it, right?” said Stiles, with a grin. He wiped at his eyes, feeling a bit more composed, then leaned forward to grab another next slice of bread.

 

“Here,” said Erica, suddenly. Stiles looked up to see her returning with a bright red cloak, hood and all, an amused grin on her face.

 

Stiles knew he was being teased, but stood from the table, wiping his hands and turned to regard the hooded cape.

 

“I like it,” he said after a moment.

 

Erica laughed and handed it to him to put on.

 

“You look like the little girl in the fairy tale,” said Boyd flatly.

 

“Derek’s a wolf,” said Stiles with a grin and a shrug. “It fits. We can be Red Rider and the Wolf. It has a good ring to it.”

 

Erica laughed and Boyd shook his head and rolled his eyes.

 

“I wasn’t serious, Stiles,” laughed Erica.

 

“What do you think, Derek?” asked Stiles, standing tall with his chest puffed out. He watched as Derek’s lips quirked thoughtfully.

 

“Red is a good colour for you,” said Derek, simply.

 

Derek smiled at him, his eyes warm. It made Stiles blush.

 

“You two make a curious couplement,” sighed Boyd.

 

“I think they’re adorable,” laughed Erica.

 

Stiles grinned.

 

\----------------

 

 

 

 

 

 

End.

 

 

 


	9. Epliogue

 

 

They dashed out of the large bank, Stiles laughing brightly with the rush of adrenaline; Derek with his face stern and his long claws still out. Men were shouting behind them, officers giving chase. The traffic in the street came to a stuttering halt at the sudden situation. Stiles and Derek dashed through the mess. When they had reached the opposite side of the wide, cobblestone street, Stiles came to an abrupt halt.

 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!” he yelled after Derek, still grinning widely though he was panting from the exertion. When Derek pulled up and turned to give him a confused look, Stiles’ grin broadened in a way he was sure looked insane though there was nothing for it. Stiles pulled two bronze and mahogany guns from the double leather holster at his side. “My own design,” he said, brandishing the guns and wiggling his eyebrows when he saw Derek raise his. “Okay, now... _watch this_.”

 

He took aim at one of the men running toward them and pulled the trigger of the first gun. Three thin silver-blue darts flew out and sunk into the first man’s throat. He went down instantly. Then, with an inhale, Stiles took aim with the second gun. Exhaling, he pulled the trigger and three round, pebble-like spheres shot out and hit the ground just in front of the rest of the group of men. A strange, dark, smoky gas was instantly released from the spheres the moment they hit the ground. The men stumbled, coughing and moaning as they grabbed at their faces.

 

“Booyah!” called out Stiles in triumph, fist-punching the air, guns still in hand.

 

“Come on!” exclaimed Derek, sounding exasperated.

 

Stiles only had enough time to reholster his guns before Derek was grabbing him by the bicep and dashing into the closest alley. Still not over the novelty, Stiles couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to see how his red cloak floated and billowed behind him. It had him misstepping on a raised stone and nearly going down save for Derek’s grasp of his bicep.

 

“Focus, Stiles,” growled Derek.

 

“Yes, sir,” laughed Stiles.

 

They had made it a few blocks before a large explosion erupted behind them. The sound of it was so strong and deep that it felt as though it vibrated directly from inside Stiles’ ribcage. They had made sure not to use so much dynamite that it would debilitate half the city, really only wanting to explode the very innards of Gerard Argent’s separate vault, but the sound still resembled that of a mountain falling down.

 

“That’ll have them preoccupied,” said Stiles, slowing down in stride. “I always wish we could stay around and watch that part.”

 

“I begin to believe you to be as unsound in mind as the authorities say,” replied Derek, slowing his pace. “What do you shoot that man with?”

 

Stiles laughed.

 

“Nothing but a tranquilizer, he’ll wake with a headache in a few hours,” said Stiles, with a flick of his wrist. “And it’s called adrenaline, _Love_ ,” he said, grabbing at Derek’s arm to halt him. “I read a study,” he continued, when Derek turned to give him a quizzical look, “they say it comes from our more primal ancestors; a fight or flight response. I’m sure you have it in spades. You just seem less open to embracing the exhilaration.”

 

Stiles grinned again when he saw the telling quirk of Derek’s lips. He took a step closer, reaching for Derek and wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

 

“Is this _embracing the exhilaration_?” asked Derek lowly as he wrapped an arm around Stiles’ waist and brought his free hand up to Stiles face.

 

Eyes fluttering shut, Stiles groaned his answer before leaning in to kiss Derek deeply. He brought his hands up to clutch at Derek’s face when Derek pressed in to deepen the kiss.

 

“There they are!” yelled out a voice in the distance. “Get the mandrakes!”

 

Stiles grumbled under his breath, pulling back from the kiss.

 

“That wasn’t a very accepting thing to say,” he said, mock-pouting. He grinned when Derek rolled his eyes as they started forward again. “I’m just saying; one would consider that rather hateful. I should see the authorities about it.”

 

“Those _are_ the authorities, Stiles,” grit out Derek.

 

Stiles would have said more as he loved winding Derek up, but he needed the rest of his breath for running. Instead, he went quiet and followed after Derek, running his hardest. His lungs were beginning to ache and his thighs grow weary. He had grown much swifter over the past few months, but he still had a very hard time keeping stride with Derek in such situations. And, he knew Derek wasn’t running at his full potential, too.

 

They burst out of the alley into a busy street, spooking a horse pulling a carriage and causing it to balk. Stiles jumped out of the way and knocked into a man on a bicycle. They both went down in a heap of shouts. Derek was quick to grab Stiles and pull him from the tangle.

 

“Apologies!” Stiles shouted back at the man still on the ground as they continued on.

 

“Come on!” growled Derek.

 

They dashed through the busy circle, dodging pedestrians and carriages and the like. When they reached the other side, they ran down another alley, ducking down a narrow set of stairs to their left when they heard the tell-tale whirring and flapping of a small gendarmerie airship floating overhead. Stiles slowed to not fall down the long staircase in his haste.

 

“Where does this lead?” asked Derek.

 

“Judging from the width and the sudden smell,” said Stiles, panting, “I believe to the sewers.”

 

“Good,” said Derek, hurrying forward.

 

“Good?” laughed Stiles incredulously. “I didn’t think we were in _that_ much trouble that we’d need to resort to wading in refuse!”

 

“There are officers on foot and in the air,” was the other reply Derek gave.

 

“It’ll take days, if not weeks to rid ourselves of the smell,” replied Stiles, though he still followed Derek as they trotted down the stairs into the dim lighting below.

 

“We will take many baths,” replied Derek.

 

Stiles ran straight into him, foot falling wrong when there was no more steps below him. It was very dark and Stiles had not been able to see that they had reached the bottom of the stairs. Derek grabbed him before he could hit the stone floor. Stiles allowed himself to stay plastered against Derek for a few moments, enjoying the feel of his body against Derek’s.

 

“Will they be taken together?” asked Stiles, cheekily.

 

He could hear and even feel Derek’s harrumph. It made him grin. He straightened so he could place a quick kiss at the corner of Derek’s mouth. He heart jumped into his throat in sudden excited surprise when Derek grabbed him with a hand at his hip and an arm around his back and pulled him toward the wall.

 

“Mmm, yes,” said Stiles, lowly, but no hungry kiss was forthcoming.

 

“Shh,” hissed Derek, instead. “They approach.”

 

Stiles pouted, albeit silently. As Derek had predicted, only milliseconds later, the sounds of many footfalls –most definitely the group of gendarmerie officers— rang out as they ran past the stairway. Once the sound had faded out of Stiles’ earshot, and moments later, out of Derek’s, Stiles spoke again.

 

“Here I thought you were planning on having your wicked way with me,” said Stiles, sticking out his bottom lip because he knew Derek could see it even in the dark.

 

“I realize you are easily distracted, Stiles,” said Derek in response, “but you quickly forget we are being chased.”

 

Stiles laughed.

 

“You had never meant for us to wade through the sewers,” he said with sudden realization. “You tantalize me with thoughts of communal bathing and then you do not go through with it.”

 

Derek leaned in and gave Stiles a quick, hard kiss. It was effective in shutting him up, though Stiles whined when he pulled back.

 

“The horses are but one street over,” said Derek. “If we go now, we should reach them before we are discovered.”

 

“Let’s go,” said Stiles, nodding.

 

They climbed back up the stairs, Stiles cursing under his breath at how it made his thighs burn after so much running. They didn’t have much further to go, though. Like Derek had said, they were only a street away from where they had left discreet brown carriage and two of Derek’s horses. They crossed the alley and headed onto the right street. Stiles stopped when he saw a poster glued on a bulletin board next to a small business. On it were sketches of two very familiar faces.

 

“Our reward posters get better and better every time I see a new one,” said Stiles.

 

Derek didn’t stop, though, continuing forward to the public stable where they had left the carriage. Stiles pulled the poster down in one swift movement, folded it up quickly and shoved it in his vest pocket.

 

They entered the public stable through the back, pausing so Derek could listen. When it was determined they were the only two people in the stable, they moved quickly to where they left the carriage.

 

“Hello Astru,” said Stiles, lowly, as they approached the two horses. The gray horse flicked his ears toward Stiles and nickered softly making Stiles grin. “I love you, too, big guy.”

 

“He does not know what you say,” said Derek as he climbed onto the driver’s seat of the carriage and pulled on the overcoat they had left there.

 

“Now, that’s just rude,” said Stiles, shaking his head at Derek. “Astru is a very intelligent horse. Oh, as are you, Prijatii!” he said moving to pat the dark brown horse’s neck. “As are you!”

 

“Yes, but they only speak Romani,” said Derek.

 

Stiles looked up at him with narrowed eyes in time to see Derek’s smirk before he managed to hide it. He raised an eyebrow at Derek, but Derek was busying himself with dusting off the wide-brimmed hat and placing it on his head. It would help hide his face, just as the overcoat would help him blend in. Stiles, on the other hand, was much more well-known, and would have to stay in the covered carriage until they were out of town.

 

“You know exactly what I’m saying, right?” he whispered conspiratorially to the two horses, rubbing their muzzles. One of them snorted which was a good enough answer for him. “Okay, good,” he said, “now we gotta blend in, so don’t give us away, got it?”

 

“What is our destination, Stiles?” asked Derek as Stiles left the horses to climb into the carriage.

 

“Clermont!” said Stiles, opening the carriage’s door and swinging up into it. “It’s this lovely city in the middle of France –plenty of history there. It also happens to be where our friend, _Monsieur_ Argent has his permanent residence.”

 

“Great,” said Derek flatly. “Which way?”

 

“West, my love!” said Stiles before shutting the carriage door. “Head west out of the city; we have a long way to go.”

 

He sat back in the seat as the carriage began to roll forward. He pulled the wanted poster out from his pocket and unfolded it. He read it over, smirking at the sketches of Derek and himself. He frowned when he read over the smaller text, though.

 

“Little Red and the Wolf,” he said out loud in offense.

 

“What?” came Derek’s voice, muffled and distant through the closed window at the front of the carriage.

 

Stiles leaned forward and slid it open so his face was near the back of Derek’s head.

 

“Our titles on this wanted poster,” said Stiles. “They called us Little Red and the Wolf! It’s supposed to be Red Rider and the Wolf! Red Rider! Idiots! I am _not_ little!”

 

He heard Derek chuckle lowly which only made his frown deepen.

 

“Neither do you ride anything,” said Derek.

 

Stiles grinned wickedly at that. He heard Derek huff as if he already knew what Stiles was thinking.

 

“Well, you ride one thing,” Derek admitted.

 

Stiles crowed with delight.

 

“ _Yeah_ , I do!” he agreed, proudly. He couldn’t see Derek’s face, but he imagined him rolling his eyes. “Nothing _little_ about that,” he added.

 

Derek groaned.

 

“This is why Cora doesn’t like you,” grumbled Derek.

 

“You said she _did_ like me!” shot back Stiles, clutching at his chest in mock outrage.

 

“I said she does not _hate_ you,” argued Derek. “I did not say she likes you. She complains you stink too much like me.”

 

Stiles grinned.

 

“She’ll get used to it,” said Stiles.

 

“I believe so,” replied Derek.

 

The carriage bumped along through the city without issue. Stiles folded up the wanted poster and put it back in his pocket.

 

“Speaking of Cora,” said Stiles. “She packed us some food this morning. When we are a fair distance away from the city, I petition we stop to eat.”

 

“That is acceptable,” replied Derek. “I didn’t know she had sent food.”

“She did!” answered Stiles while pulling out the sack under the seat to look inside. He crowed in delight when he saw the wrapped dessert squares in the bottom of the bag. “And she even sent more of those date squares I like so much,” called Stiles. “See, she definitely likes me!”

 

“Okay, Stiles,” said Derek. “She likes you.”

 

“That’s right, I’m like catnip to you Romani wolf-people,” boasted Stiles while unwrapping the date squares.

 

“Save something for me,” said Derek causing Stiles to pause.

 

“You have so little faith in me,” said Stiles, placing the date squares back in the sack. “I can’t _believe_ you’d think I’d start eating without you.”

 

“What do you have planned for us to do at Mister Argent’s home?” asked Derek. “You do not mean for us to kidnap him.”

 

“No, nothing so pedestrian,” answered Stiles, setting the sack back down and leaning forward again so he was closer to the little window between him and Derek. “My sources say that he is set to have a gathering of sorts there –investors for his next great scheme. We need to go find out what _that_ ’s all about. Hopefully there will be call for dynamite.”

 

“How fares your father?” asked Derek dryly, obviously knowing that was who Stiles meant by ‘sources’.

 

“He’s doing well,” said Stiles, nodding. “He wants us to stop in for supper some time. He still hasn’t properly met you, after all.”

 

“Is this where I ask for his blessing?” asked Derek.

 

“Derek,” said Stiles, grinning and shaking his head, “we are wanted felons; I highly doubt there’ll be need for any sort of _blessing_ involving any of our current life choices.”

 

“Still...” said Derek. “I worry he will not like me.”

 

“He’s easier to please than Cora,” offered Stiles. “Besides, _everyone_ likes you.”

 

“I only care that one person likes me,” replied Derek after a short pause. The low timbre in which he spoke was did lovely, fluttery things to Stiles’ belly.

 

“Aww, Derek,” sighed Stiles while dramatically grabbing at his chest, comedy covering just how touched he was by Derek’s words. “You are so romantic! –wait, you mean me, right? You’re not talking about that woman at the butcher shop who gives you bones when you’re in wolf form are you!?”

 

“Yes,” said Derek around a longsuffering sigh, “I meant you.”

 

“Okay, good,” said Stiles, grinning at the back of Derek’s head through the little window. “Because I do –like you, that is. I mean, if it wasn’t completely obvious. What with the kissing and the basket-making and that one time when we—”

 

“Stiles!” cut in Derek.

 

“Yes, Lover?” asked Stiles, leaning his cheek against the wall of the carriage and grinning brightly.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Okay,” said Stiles, beaming.

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 


End file.
